


Watch Me Fall

by Nanimok



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Tim, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Suspense, Suspension Of Disbelief, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Whump, a bit - Freeform, hopefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 15:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14264376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: After an encounter leaves Tim reeling, he begins to question about what it means to be a hero and what it takes to protect the people of Gotham.Slowly, Tim understands Jason a little better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weirdthingsfirst](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=weirdthingsfirst).



> So many apologies for being late, but here is the fic inspired by a wonderful piece drawn by [weird-things-first](http://weird-things-first.tumblr.com). Beta'ed by [phoenixrisingdusk](http://phoenixrisingdusk.tumblr.com) and [xseaxwitchx](http://xseaxwitchx.tumblr.com) so please send them all the love.
> 
> Written for Batfamily Reverse Big Bang 2017. 
> 
> As usual, please suspend all your beliefs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mild depictions of violence. Not too explicit. Tim does go through a lot.
> 
> Beta:  
> [phoenixrisingdusk](http://phoenixrisingdusk.tumblr.com)  
> [xseaxwitchx](http://xseaxwitchx.tumblr.com)

From where they perch on the roof, the warehouse stands as dilapidated as the other houses around it. There are no lights and no activity on the street. Rickety wood and rusty corrugated iron fences the neighbourhood. Bold, bright graffiti covered almost every surface. Most people go out of their way to walk around these sorts of places than to cross it. Every corner reeks of something sour.

Naturally, it screams 'evil lair'.  

“I cannot believe Batman assigned you as my supervisor,” Damian says, grumbling. “I cannot believe Batman assigned me a supervisor at all.”

Tim doesn’t look up from the small screen he holds in his hand. He does, however, sigh, because there is no such thing as a quiet night when patrolling with Damian.

“If you have a problem with me,” Tim says, “take it up with the big guy.”

“I am not a child.”

“No,” Tim agrees, “but I believe you are in your supposed ‘rebellious teenage’ phase.”

Damian scoffs. “Preposterous.”

“Aww, don’t fret." Tim says, his voice dripping with pity. "We’ve all been there. I know your hormones are making it a hard time for you, being thirteen and all—”

Damian gags.

Tim cackles.

 “You are a twisted man, Red Robin. What delays us anyway?” Damian asks. “Dent is expected to be back within the hour.”

Shaking his laughter away, Tim says, “Oracle reported interference from the warehouse. We’ll be operating without the use of our coms once we’re inside, and since Red Hood will be on stand-by, I’m waiting for him to veer closer before we break in.”

“It’s imperative for us to begin soon; the time left for dawdling is diminishing.”

Even though the kid’s grown on him throughout the years, it still kills Tim to admit that Tim actually likes spending time with him. And as abrasive as Damian is all the goddamn time, he’s also right. They’re running out of time.

There are rumours of Two Face using this warehouse as storage. While Oracle has confirmed that no one guards the area, they’re not willing to cross out the possibility without a thorough investigation. Across the city, Two Face should be embroiled in a skirmish with Bruce.

A red dot blinks on his screen. Jason should take about ten minutes to reach them by his motorcycle. Could he and Damian afford those ten minutes?

Between Damian, Jason and himself, they could probably take Two Face and his goons if they do get caught, but it would be a long, bloody, and exhausting fight. It’s better for them to go in, investigate and regroup with Batman. Easy, quick and clean.

He switches off the monitor, slips it into a pouch at the back of his utility straps, and signals Damian the go ahead. They slip through an entry point through the roof and darkness engulfs them, broken only by beams of moonlight piercing through the windows. Rows and rows of countless storage containers greet them when they land on solid ground.

Storage containers in an abandoned warehouse makes anything infinitely more dodgy.

Damian kneels and start picking at the locks. He pauses and tilts his head.

“Do you hear that?” Damian asks.

Tim stills and tips his ears in the direction Damian faces. On the edge of his hearing range, he hears something—muffled and faint.

After exchanging a look, they race towards its direction. A voice, filled with utter, desperate terror, urges them forward.

“ _Help! Help me! Somebody, please! Help me!”_

The voice comes from one of the storage container. Putting on hand on his helmet, Tim scans for any explosives attached to the door. When he finds nothing, he jerks his heat at Damian and Damian pulls ahead of Tim. He reaches storage container first, sliding out his pick locking tools.

Seconds later, the locks bounces against the concrete with a echoing clink. He kicks the door open. Two figures lay on the ground, with their backs towards them, curled up and trembling.

Tim puts his arms out, halting Damian.

Something’s not right.

The voice they heard from the recording had a high tone—like the call came from a kid. There are no kids here, only two grown men that could be dolls. Tim turns on the thermal imaging on his headgear.

The bodies glow orange and red.

They must be alive.

Tim turns the imaging off and signals them to approach cautiously. A tap on his phone and h alerts Oracle to send for medical help. After, Tim goes to one man while Damian goes to the other.

“Sir?”

Tim gets down to one knee, puts a hand on the man’s shoulder to turn him over.  

“Sir, do you have any injuries that needs immediate atten—”

Words die on his tongue.

It not the man’s suit that makes the bottom of Tim’s stomach fall from dread. Nor the man’s bowtie, or his widened eyes, or his blown up pupils, or how he shakes without stopping.

It’s his smile.

Wide and stretched, his grin disfigures his face.

This is not the work of Harvey Dent.

Before Tim could push away, the bowtie sprays him. Sourness, bitterness, then blistering fire on his face.

“Drake?” Damian turns his head towards Tim. “Drake, are you—”

Another spraying noise, then a thud.

But Tim can’t hear anything else as the rest of his body cramps up. He jerks to the ground in agony. Raking at his face, laughter breaks out of him.

Air squeezes out of his chest in spasms. It doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough to breathe. Every action yanks his twitching nerves—his twitching, taut, and strained nerves. Tim wrenches against his own muscles to reach his utility belt. Finally, he unbuckles two vials.

He doesn’t think twice about it; he chucks one vial at Damian. Underneath the shrill laughter, he can hear the vial clatter on the ground.

_Focus, Tim!_

Shaking, he unravels his glove enough to see a sliver of skin on his arm. He thumbs the top of the vial. A needle pokes out at the bottom.

He stabs down on his arm.

Sharp pain as the needle pierces his skin. His body registers the cold intrusion. His hand continues to shake. Before his hand could rip the needle out, he presses down.

The effect is immediate; as the pressure increases, his muscles relaxes and his laughter simmers down. The tight tension drains out of him, and his breathing deepens. Sweat trickles down his face.

Thank God for practice drills.

Carefully, Tim pushes himself up on his knees and blinks the control back into his wrung-out body.

“Robin?” he calls out. “Robin, report—”

Movement in the corner of his eyes.

Pain explodes at the back of his head. His hands slip from underneath him.

His head bounces against the floor.

His vision blurs out. 

 

* * *

 

Tim wakes to his face stinging and the taste of metal on his tongue.

Cold concrete floor stretches under him, in what looks to be a warehouse. His head rings, his throat is dry and the artificial light blears his focus. Ropes tie his knees and ankles, and hands. Whoever assaulted them had the mind to take his belt, his bandoliers, and his gloves off. Breaking his thumb won’t work; the rope is tied too tightly. There’s nothing he could do but wriggle and crawl.

Bound stiff and cramped, Tim’s as good as incapacitated. His mind turns against him.

Jason woke up tied in a warehouse too. Jason woke up bound, was subsequently beaten, and blown up. Crawling hadn’t saved him then.

 _Crawling might not save him now,_ his mind whispers.

Rolling to his side, he sees Damian lying next to him, tied in the same manner. Blood smears his cheek and uniform. His nose bends at an angle that makes Tim want to cringe from experience.

“Robin,” Tim whispers. “Robin, wake up.”

Damian's doesn’t respond.

His stillness amplifies the racing bass of Tim’s heartbeat.

Tim raises his voice a bit louder. “Dami— _Robin_ , please. Please wake up.”

He zones in on Damian’s chest, it’s rise and fall. Faint, but there. Relief crashes into him, so hard he wants to cry.

His suit doesn’t have a tracking bug sewn in, only on his belt, but Tim knows the Robin suit has one. In the aftermath of Jason’s death, Bruce was obsessive about it—was downright impossible about removing the one in the Red Robin suit. People often note how Tim’s stubbornness parallels Bruce, and he was adamant about his privacy.

As long as Damian’s breathing, they’ll be okay. Help is coming.

All they need to do is survive until then.

A cry breaks out in the room, desperate and guttural. It’s familiarity sends dread crawling up his throat.

“ _Help! Help me! Somebody, please! Help me!”_

For a moment, nothing follows. Then, a clicking noise. The sound of audio reeling echoes behind him, another click, before the cry plays again.

Somewhere behind him, a low-chuckle builds into a wheezing, shrieking laughter. Tim clenches his eyes shut as his stomach plummets.

The Joker walks forward, one hand behind his back and one hand holding a tape recorder.

Fear rips through him first—chilling, shuddering, spine licking fear—at the purple that unravels as the laughter comes closer under light. Then _rage_. A prickly, pulsing, sour tasting rage that coils deep in his guts.

"Nice of sleeping beauty to finally join us,” he says. “Now, it’s time to get the show rolling."

Tim grinds his teeth. “What did you do to him?”

The Joker considers Damian’s curling form on the floor, and pouts. He leans down towards Tim in one, big, exaggerated motion, and whispers behind the tape recorder as if he’s unveiling a secret—as if they were _buddies_.

“If you ask me, he looks asleep,” the Joker tells Tim. “Children these days—always too busy with their phones and skipping nap times. Oh! _Or_ we could have a resident narcoleptic in our hands. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Pressing his lips together, Tim doesn’t answer.

The Joker laughs anyway. He laughs and laughs and laughs, until his voice cracks and he doubles over, clutching his belly. Tim thinks that he’s going to laugh forever, dragging out his breathing like a broken record, until he snaps up. All of a sudden, his demeanour grows stony, and his smile twists into a sneer.

He swings his leg back, and he kicks Damian in the ribs.

The impact jostles Damian with a sickening thud, but still, Damian doesn’t respond, his body lifeless and limp.

Tim bites his tongue. Every instinct screams at him to make the Joker stop, but Tim—Tim is helpless. So helpless that it drives him absolutely furious. All those hours spent training and honing his body, his mind, and his tools—and still he ends up powerless, subjected to the Joker’s mercies. Everybody knows the Joker has no mercy.

Options, options—what are his options here?

The Joker is predictably unpredictable. Yelling ‘stop’ might drive him to continue using Damian as a punching bag, or the opposite could happen—he could very well listen and start focusing on Tim just because he feels like it.

Although, if Tim keeps his silence, he could still continue with the former because it caters to his absurd kind of humour. He could also introduce a whole new variable of pain, because who can truly track what kind of crazy the Joker operates on.

They have to play it smart and survive. Help is on the way.

“Oh dear,” the Joker says. “He’s a bit of a deep sleeper isn’t he? That’s no good at all.”

He kicks Damian again. This time, there’s a crunch. A sharp crunch that guts Tim to his core.

“Still nothing? Well that’s odd.” The Joker rubs his chin, before clicking his fingers. “I have just the idea to wake him up!”   

He bends at the waist, careful to keep whatever’s in his other hand hidden—and if he’s keeping it hidden then it can’t be good. He presses the tape recorder against Damian’s ear. The tape cries for help with the kind of desperation that cannot be faked.

For a small miniscule of a second Tim wonders—what happened to this boy?

Growling in frustration, the Joker throws the tape recorder. It bounces off Damian’s face and clatters to the ground.

“Insolent brat,” he grumbles to himself. “The one time the mouthy boy is quiet is the one time I need an audience. A joke is never complete without an audience. What would I even say—ah ha! I’ve rendered the mouthy brat speechless!”

He laughs.

“Speechless…” The Joker shakes his head. “That’s a good one.”

Another dip in his mood overtakes his features. In a blink of an eye, the Joker’s crinkled smile deforms into a scowl.

“Here I am making good jokes and the Bat Brat’s not even awake to appreciate it,” he says.  “A waste of my talents!”

The Joker uses the toe of his shoe to tip Damian’s chin up in a parody of a concerned inspection. His toe slips between Damian’s neck until his feet is flat on top of Damian’s neck. With one stomp, he could crush Damian’s windpipe.

Pure, jagged terror spikes through Tim.

A grin grows on the Joker’s face. “Maybe a new throat job will wake the boy—”

“Stop _,_ ” pleads Tim. “Please stop.”

The Joker raises one eyebrow. “Oh. And why should I listen to—”

“He’s unresponsive.”

“Well, boo-hoo. As if I care,” the Joker says. “Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s rude to interrupt? Would it kill you young-ins to be a little polite?”

“He’s unfit to be your audience,” Tim says, forging onwards. “You said that a show isn’t complete until it’s received by the audience, right? What good feedback could one possibly make when they’re unconscious?”

_Please, please, please, get away from him._

“Quite a talker aren’t you?” the Joker asks, delighted. “Although you do make some interesting points. ”

And with that he takes his foot off of Damian’s neck.

A small victory for Tim that feels profound.

“Even if you are a little rude about—”

“Who was the boy on the tape?” Tim asks. “What did you do to him? How did you get us here and what did you do to Damian?”

His mind is whizzing and his tongue is tumbling after. The Joker is arrogant and full of pride. Get the Joker angry. Get the Joker away from Damian.

_Survive until the help arrives._

“Why do you do this when you know you’ll never win?” Tim asks. “Once Batman comes, you’ll be carted off straight to the Asylum in a straitjacket. Arkham upgraded its security systems to the point that even Killer Croc has been incarcerated for six—”

When the kick comes, Tim almost didn’t expect it. He tenses his abdomen before it hits right on his sternum, leaving him winded. He’s defenceless against the next one; blunt pain on his chest. A groan rips out of him, racking his body and Tim curls into himself.

The Joker doesn’t stop punctuating his anger with kicks, unhinging with every word.

“I don’t,” the Joker chews out. “Appreciate. Getting interrupted, Bat Brat.”

With one final gusto, the Joker kicks at his jaw. Tim’s head snaps backwards, and his teeth rattles. A thousand needles, or what feels like it, stabs his head and white dots swims in his vision.

Breathing hard, and seemingly tired—although Tim is sure that it’s for the sake of theatrics—the Joker holds up a finger, as if signalling that he needed a minute to catch his breath. As if Tim was in a position of giving the Joker a minute to catch his breath.

God, everything _hurts._

“Phew. Quite the rebel aren’t you?” the Joker says, wiping at his forehead. “Beating the rebellion out of kids is quite the workout when you’re getting to my age. Why, you’re almost as bad as the first brat I’ve ever had tied up and beaten to a pulp.” He breaks off into a longing, dreamy sigh. “My first time. Well, my first batboy I mean. He was quite a fighter, that one. Took everything like a champ! Could’ve gone at it for the whole night if good old Batsy hadn’t been chasing—”

Tim snaps. “Don’t talk about Robin like that!”

He gets another kick to the face for interrupting. Blood drips as his nose screeches in pain. Cold, metallic blood slips unwanted into Tim’s mouth.

“What did I say about interruptions?” The Joker makes a tutting noise. “Really, you kids never learn.”

Once again, the Joker stills. Slowly, the Joker straightens up and reveals the hand that he’s been hiding behind his back since the beginning—and the steel baseball bat he’s holding.

There’s enough of Tim left to flinch backwards at the unveiling.

He’s had broken bones before, fissures, fractures, and everything in between. He’s had scare toxin and poisons fucking up with his nerve systems while experiencing heavy blows, and he’s no stranger to getting beaten half to death. Pain is not an unfamiliar concept to Tim.

But his body betrays him. His heart races, no matter how much he’s trying to control it. It feels as though there are weights pressing down against his chest that get heavier every time he tries to breath, and he can’t help but quicken his breaths because not enough oxygen is getting in.

The bat is smeared with blood. It doesn’t comfort Tim knowing that it’s Damian’s.

The Joker juggles the bat between his hands, admiring it. “I thought about a crowbar for an encore performance,” he tells Tim, “but it’s just not the same. It’s getting too old. I needed something new and then I thought, why not a bat? Imagine that! Batting a bat with a bat! Batter up!”

He pauses bursts into a fit of laughter that leaves tears on his cheeks.

Anger swells in Tim. Raw hatred for this disgusting, _vile,_ man thrums mercilessly like his wounds. He shakes from its intensity.

This waste of oxygen. This gross specimen that never has reason for his rhyme and entitlement to—to _obliterate_ other people’s lives with chaos. How dare he?

Underneath all that, there’s also fear. Fear that survival is too far of a reach for him while he’s crawling on the floor. Fear that, maybe, help will come a second too late, and his story will end like Jason’s once did.

“Uh oh.” The Joker tilts his head at Tim. “You don’t look so good. All that blood painting your face and you look so pale.”

Tim has to try. “Why,” he demands, voice croaky. “Why are you doing this?”

When the Joker smiles, it’s a smile that’s sharper than knives and crueller than anything Tim’s ever seen before.

“Kiddo, you’re asking the wrong questions. You’re all work and no play, just like daddy Bats and that’s just not fun,” he says. He wraps his fingers around the bat slowly, before raising it over his head. “No, I find that the real question that get you places, the real knacker to motivate anyone is, ‘why not?’”

 

* * *

 

Time slides, stretches and slurs.

It feels like hours since waking up tied helpless in the warehouse, and help still hasn’t arrived. Damian is still unresponsive. And Tim—

Tim can’t differentiate the wetness on his face. Somewhere between the first time the bat smashed his face or the third, tears started drenching the dried flakes of blood.

His body doesn’t feel like his own; skin hot and swollen, throbbing with excruciating, mind-numbing pain. He’s breathless and fuzzy, achy for relief. He struggles to concentrate, block out the pain from getting too overwhelming, else he slip away from consciousness.

At some point, he’s lost his headgear and only his domino remain. He hasn’t stopped trying to slip from the bindings, but his muscles are laden with exhaustion.

Tim’s strong, at peak strength level for someone with his muscle mass, but he’s not superhuman. His body is his tool, but incapacitated, he’s helpless.  

_Survive until help arrives._

Tim’s not sure if that’s feasible for him anymore.

And as if the pain wasn’t enough, the Joker is one of those bastards that likes to monologue between his hits. Always asking stupid questions. Always wanting Tim to answer.

Why won’t he just _shut up?_

He’s not sparing Tim from any sort of torture right now.

“How’s it going there, baby bats?” the Joker asks, rubbing one finger on his chin. “You’re a lot less lively than people your age should be.”

Tim doesn’t reply. He focuses on breathing.

“Oh!” the Joker says. “You know what I think would cheer you up? A smile! So come on, open your eyes and give us a smile.”

Cracking his eyelids open, he finds himself staring down a barrel of a gun.

Every cell in him freezes.

“I don’t like it when people aren’t paying attention to me,” the Joker warns. “And after all the trouble I went to prepare all this. Why, I had to dig up things I haven’t touched in centuries! In fact…”

He cocks the gun and fires at the ceiling.

_Bang! Bang!_

The explosion of noise is such a stark contrast to the quietness before that Tim flinches.

“Oh. So I _did_ remember to fill this up. Haha!” the Joker says, delighted. “I keep forgetting to replace my broken toys, you see. Such a bad habit, but you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. Pah!”

The Joker squats down. Tim feels the cool kiss of the barrel of the gun at the corner of his mouth. It pulls his mouth upwards, disfiguring his face into a grin.

“There we go.” The Joker mirrors his one sided grin. “Much better!”

The indignity burns all good sense out of him. All that’s left is hurt and spite.

Tim spits at the Joker.

Red that splashes on his chin, and the Joker reels back.

There’ll be nothing but regret later. For now— _oh,_ the _satisfaction_. Tim had Joker toxin sprayed all over his face, and now, having that little bullet of red smearing the Joker's chin feels like a small amount of payback.

A bleak thunderous expression clouds on the Joker’s face. Instead of hitting him, instead of punching him, the Joker _slaps_ him.

The smack rings in his ears. His eyes water from the sting and humiliation.

The Joker brings out a hanky, wipes his face with it. He begins to rant, and with every word his movements becomes more erratic.

“Ungrateful brat! Filthy, ill-mannered _rat_! Just like the other one! And after everything I’ve done to set this whole gig just for you—”

He cocks the gun and aims it between Tim’s eyes.

Tim’s whole world narrows down on the barrel.

The Joker pulls the trigger.

_Click!_

No explosion.

He tries again, finger back and forth, getting angrier with each flick.

 _Click! Click! Click! Click_ —

Tim’s chest trembles and shakes. Relief so profound, so consuming, floods his over his broken body pricks his eyes with new tears. There was no warning _,_ no taunts, no _nothing._ He flipped like a switch and Tim could have had a bullet in his brains before he could even _blink_ —

The gun clatters to the ground away from him, the noise piercing his thoughts.

“No good hunk of metal,” the Joker grumbles. “I guess we’re back to the original programme.”

Suddenly, Tim is getting dragged by the collar, his already broken body shrieking as every wound, every bone, every tear grates against rough concrete.

He’s being lifted now, being made to stand, but his body like jelly and he collapses on his on his knees. The jolt wrenches a hiss and a shaky inhale out of him.

A hand snakes his way through his matted, bloody hair and pulls his head up. The sting of his scalp is enough for him to focus his blurring vision.

Tim finds himself kneeling on the edge of a concrete ledge, and below them, a story down, is a vat of green liquid.

It doesn’t take much more for him to put the pieces together.

 _Eleven percent sodium hydroxide,_ Bruce’s voice cites in his mind, _Thirty four percent sulfuric acid. Five percent chromium solution, and zinc sulfide doped with copper, which gives it it’s green glow._

“Isn’t it beautiful?” the Joker asks. “The right amount of sodium yadda-yadda, of what’s-it acid and metal to give the most glorious green you’ve ever seen?”

Tim doesn’t answer. His squeezes in on itself, fighting for his breath as his eyes are stuck to the vat of Ace Chemicals beneath him.  

The Joker pouts, sulking. “It’s not a show if no one’s listening, kiddo.”

He jerks Tim forward over the ledge. Desperate, Tim presses back against the hand as his ratcheted breathing becomes audible.

The Joker pulls him back, and pulls him up so that he could press his cheek against Tim’s wet terrified ones.

“Oh, I get it. You’re _scared._ ” The Joker laughs. “Oh, that is _precious_. Didn’t think a bat would be afraid of heights. Or are you really just afraid of being as handsome and hilarious as _moi_ , instead of being dull and boring like daddy Bats?”

He laughs again. He laughs with abandon, with his face so close to Tim that he could feel the warm air he wheezes out while Tim’s in his hazy, panicking state.

And it’s fucked up. It’s fucked up that Tim’s pressing back into the same hand that’s brutalized him from a bat, the same hand that pushed a gun right between his eyes, hoping—no— _pleading_ in his mind that the Joker doesn’t let go.

“Although,” the Joker ponders, “daddy Bats have been quite busy hasn’t he? Always saving the world, leaving us Gothamites to wait for him to come home like an old, forgotten pair of _shoes._ ”

The Joker sneers the last word, before breathing in and out, pacing himself. “You know, that’s the part really got to me,” he says. “Maybe it’s time I settled down as well. Grab a brat or two. pass on my legacy. I’m not that much of a teacher myself, but I definitely know who was. Bats was! And so I thought, hey, if I grabbed the Bat’s brats, then I gain two fully trained brats, while he loses two of his own. It’s a win-win! For me at least.”

A pause.

“Well, that is if I got the recipe right,” the Joker tells him. “Was never good at science during my school days. Could just be another vat of acid.”

Tim finally looks away from the vat, because he can’t quite hide the disgust and the horror and downright bone-deep _anger_ twisting his face.

Lord knows that whatever rises from the vat—if _anything_ survives from his injuries and the fall—will not be Timothy Drake.

Tim is going to die.

He’s going to be nothing but a casualty. A victim silenced out of existence. Another body count in the personal, obsessive war the Joker has waged against Bruce.  He’s going to be another warning story told to ward off kids at night—like _Jason,_ his traitorous mind supplies—all because of a _silly_ whim.

“Imagine having a sidekick of your own. I could definitely get a kick out of that—Haha! A kick. Get it?” The Joker wipes an imaginary tear out of his eye. “Any last words before you ka-ploosh?”

“Fuck you,” Tim says. “And your jokes are fucking awful.”

“Well, that’s rude,” the Joker says. “That’s what the other one said too. And after I took all that time to tenderize you for the acid so it’ll soak better. Oh well.”

One last, maniacal bark of laughter, then the Joker pushes Tim off the ledge.

And Tim—

Tim falls.

 

* * *

 

Tim’s not ready to die, but he doesn’t have a choice, does he?

The seconds that he falls through the air are slowed by the pounding of his heart as he regrets and longs for just a little more time to say goodbye.

He doesn’t want to die.

He wants to know if Damian will be saved after he’s gone. He wants to know if Steph will be okay without their nightly phone calls. He wants to know if Cass will find someone else that could read her mood just from her sighs; if Dick and Babs will be okay after losing another brother; if Bruce will smile again after his death; if Jason will move on from his anger and despair at losing another person to the Joker; if Alfred will crumble from trying to keep the family together while mourning for his death.

And Kon, Bart and Cassie—the Titans. Are they going to be okay?

Maybe he’s overestimating his importance here, but Tim doesn’t want to leave without letting them know how much he loves them. He loves his family and friends, no matter how frustrating they can be. He loves them now, and he loves them always.

Do they know that?

God, there are so many things that Tim still wants to do. It’s crushing that he won’t have the time to do them all.

He closes his eyes to the sound of laughter in the background.

 

* * *

 

Tim imagines something so potent, so concentrated, that it burns every crevice of his body. He imagines it slipping into corners unreached through his pores and changing the atomic composition of his body down to his genetic materials.

He imagines his lungs being overfilled by them that he chokes and suffocates. He imagines every nerve in his body screaming as he struggles for one second of clarity over searing pain.

He does not expect a body to slam into him.

Pure agony rams him until a sob breaks out. He grapples for control as he breathes out—

—and breathes in the smell of sweat, gunpowder and leather.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay. I got you, Tim,” Jason says, one arm swinging on a grappling gun, the other around Tim. “I got you. Stay awake for me, okay? We’re getting out of here, Tim. You’re going to be okay.”

There are crashes and thudding in the back, sounds of fighting and snapping. Someone cries in pain.

Tim hears none of that.

Tim only hears Jason, his rumbling voice and his own heart singing a song of survival.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta:  
> [phoenixrisingdusk](http://phoenixrisingdusk.tumblr.com)  
> [xseaxwitchx](http://xseaxwitchx.tumblr.com)

Honestly, his injuries are lot less severe than he expected.

A rigid brace wraps around his neck—that’s the first thing he notices when he wakes. Then the casts on his elevated arm and leg, both from the left side, and his swollen, aching, puffy face. Tim bets that his face is probably a pretty picture of blue and yellow right now.

It made sense, a bit, since he remembers curling up on his right side when the Joker started bashing him. He knows there’s a punctured lung and broken ribs somewhere, but he doesn’t have enough energy to fight the numbing drag caused by his painkillers to fully catalogue every wound.

It wasn’t until he saw Alfred tending to a vase beside his bed, that all traces of tensions seeps out of him. Alfred is home. Alfred is comforting. Seeing Alfred’s tired face fold into a smile brings up so much flood of affection and relief, it hits him then—Tim is finally safe.

In between him slipping in and out of consciousness, and the flurry of friends and family that came to visit, no one has told him of Damian’s condition—and he must be in a bad condition, if Damian hadn’t come to see Tim himself by now. Tim recognises that they feel the urge to protect Tim, but their instincts are needless. He would have found out eventually.

So Tim tells Jason to come over so that Tim could grill him.

As soon as Jason steps through the window, Tim asks, “How is Damian?”

Jason slips off his headgear and raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

“I am resting,’ Tim says. “Look at how in-bed I am. I haven’t moved an inch in the last hour. Now answer my question.”

“Bombarding me with texts is not resting.”

“My thumb needed the exercise.”

Dropping to the seat beside his bed, Jason sighs. “Tim.”

"Jason."

Jason gives him a knowing stare.

“Please, Jason,” Tim pleads. “Babs avoids my eyes. Alfred deflects all my questions. Dick looks like he wants to burst into tears, before his face shuts down and pretends everything’s under control. Bruce is only ever in the room when I’m asleep. Everybody’s treating me like I’d crack at any given moment and no one is telling me about Damian’s condition.” Tim clenches his fist, digging his nails into his skin, tempted to split it open. “It’s frustrating as hell. You’re not the type to pull your punches, Jason. Especially with me. I need that right now. I need you to tell me how Damian is. Is Damian going to make it?”

A couple beat of resistance, then Jason’s shoulders slack in defeat. “They don’t know, Tim.”

He swallows. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve induced a coma in hopes that the swelling in his brain will decrease.” Jason slants his mouth and hesitates. “There’s no guarantee that he’ll wake up once it does.”

“Oh,” Tim says, shattering like glass. “It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Jason says. “This is the reason everything wanted to ease the news to you. They know how obsessive your guilt complex can be.”

“I was the one who made the call, Jason,” Tim says, clenching his eyes. “I made the call to go in—maybe, if I had—”

“No one could have foreseen what happened, Tim,” Jason says. “The sole fault lies with the Joker. Don’t deny him his agency, because if you did, then by that logic what happened in Ethiopia was my fault.”

Tim falters. “ _Jesus.”_

Jason grins. “Close. My name’s Jason though.”

A shaky laugh escapes from him and Tim has to concede.

There used to be a time where his judgement was clouded and narrow. A time where he thought that Jason was the ‘bad robin’ who got himself killed. Tim was wrong, of course. Two years of working with Jason showed him that. He was wrong and he’s ashamed of himself, because in no way was Jason’s death ever his fault.

“You fight dirty,” Tim tells Jason.

“Not the type pull my punches, Timbo,” Jason says. He leans forward, unwraps Tim’s tight hand. “We’ve all been where you are right now. It’s easy to lose sight of the real culprit under the weight of your guilt, bTim, ut you can’t lose focus. It’s the Joker’s fault. He made the conscious decision to hurt you, and to injure Damian enough to put him into a coma. Never forget that, Tim.”

“I—” Tim refrains from curling his hands in again. Instead, he focuses on the solid weight of Jason’s.

Jason is right. Absolutely, one hundred percent right, but emotions are never one to take heed of logic.

If Damian doesn’t survive, Tim doesn’t think that he will ever be pardoned from his own guilt.

Then he thinks of Bruce. He thinks of Bruce and the guilt in his eyes whenever he looks at any of the Bats, and how it drives a wedge between the family more than any villain ever could.

Tim has to try.

He gives Jason a weak smile. “You’re good at this.”

“I know a thing or two about getting beaten up by the Joker,” Jason says. “It makes the petty side of me happy, knowing that he’s actually a shitty comedian.”

“His jokes were the absolute worst,” Tim mutters. "He’s bat-shit crazy if he think they’re actually funny. Battier than the bat he beat me with.”

Jason winces.

_Whoops._

“Too soon?” Tim asks.

Jason pats his hand. “Let’s just say that I finally got the deliverance coming to me for all my dying jokes.”

 

* * *

 

Once he’s rested and his dosage of painkillers have been decreased to the point where his lucid moments are more frequent than his hazy ones, Tim asks for his tablet.

Alfred was hesitant in handing it to him, and Barbara was tentative in giving him access to the data, but they both relent in the end. Sheltering him does no good.

Tim thinks maybe he shouldn’t push himself so far yet, but he’s impatient with his rate of recovery. He’s had plenty of therapy for trauma before; he knows what he’s getting into. He knows what to expect from himself. This isn’t the first time he’s been heavily injured from the job.

He only needs one hand to operate a touchscreen anyway.

It surprises him, a bit, how disconnected he feels to the pictures on the tablet.

Blood streaks the floor, quite a lot of it. He knows that it’s mostly his and Damian’s, but there’s a lack of gravity with the knowledge. A lack of punch with the pictures. Tim feels more pity for Bruce and Jason to stumble on such a haunting scene that surely dredges some nasty emotions between the two of them.   

There’s a video taken from his head gear and one from Damian’s as well. His finger hovers above it.

Tim scrolls down instead.   

There are details of the Joker’s acquirement of Ace Chemicals and his subsequent incarceration in Arkham. It turns out, the two men that Tim and Damian found are known lackeys for the Joker. They have been admitted into Gotham hospital and are recovering from their exposure to the toxin.

The warehouse that Tim and Damian were held in belonged to an unmarried man who was filed as a missing persons two months ago. It doesn’t take much for Tim to put two and two together, and when he checks, Tim find that he’s right. Batman has altered the report, and the man has been declared as deceased.

What about the tape recorder and the boy behind it?

As of now, the audio is being processed, and its results being run against multiple audio recording within Batman’s archives of security footage that coincides with the Missing Persons database.

No matches as of yet.

So Bruce thinks that the boy is dead too. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be using the missing persons database to narrow his searches. When civilians encounter the Joker, they rarely live to tell the tale without intervention. The situation is more common than to anyone’s liking.

There are people displaced from the system. People whose disappearance wouldn’t leave anyone asking questions. As much as Batman and Oracle monitors and records, there are bound to be people who have fallen in between the cracks.

In this sterile white room, with nothing else to occupy him, one question echoes like a sung note in an empty cathedral.

Just how many people have slipped through their fingers and met their ends the way the boy in the tape did?

 

* * *

 

When the searches come up with nothing, Tim knows that a confrontation with the Joker is overdue.

His fingers tap on the edge of his tablet, page opened on the case report, refreshing every minute until Bruce’s video uploads.

“Where did you get the tape?”

Bruce’s fury is dressed in a coldness that Tim knows Bruce only pulls out to hide his raw anger. It all flies over the Joker’s head.

The Joker laughs, absolutely delighted. As he usually is when Bruce’s attention is focused solely on him. Even in a straitjacket, his movements are exaggerated, and his voice reaches squeaky pitches.

Tim’s stomach churns, and his fingers digs into the tablet.

“Skipping the pleasantries and straight to business, Bats?” the Joker asks. “Haha! That’s no fun. How’s those brats of yours. Still breathing?”

The Joker’s laugh is cut off by Bruce grabbing his head and smashing it against the table. His head bounces before Bruce grips his hair and holds him down.

 _It’s a pity his neck didn’t snap,_ Tim thinks.

The Joker coughs. “Well, that’s quite rude.”

Bruce growls. “Quit fooling around. Where did you get the tape? And what happened to the boy you recorded?”

“Did you like it? I sure did,” the Joker replies. “Made it myself. You know what they say, if you want something done right, you do it your—”

Bruce slams the Joker’s head against the table. “Stick to the programme. The boy, Joker.”

“Why are you so stuck up in the past? I’d rather focus on the now,” the Joker says, wheezing. “Besides, what are you going to do if I don’t tell, Bats? Kill me?”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

The Joker cackles with glee. “Never change. You’re a classic, one of a kind.”

Bruce stands up for the door. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Sobering up, the Joker sniffles. “Don’t be such a downer, Bats. Found him on the street.”

“Name?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. He screamed loud enough.”

Tim can see Bruce’s finger twitch.

“Where did you find him?” Bruce asks. “Be more specific.”

The Joker flops on the table, and his mumbles is filtered by the table. “Can’t remember where—don’t glare at me like that! I’m getting old, okay? Pulled some strings,” he says. “Don’t remember who, though. So many faces, and all so different from each other—”

“What did you do to him?”

“I’m the _Joker_ , not the _Remember_ - _er_.” The Joker breaks off into snickers. “I’m a busy guy, Bats. I don’t have time to write in my diary, or ‘vlog’ as you and your kids do these days. Which, by the way, how is the middle child doing? Don’t you think he would have looked marvelous with green hair?”

Bruce rips his hand away to punch him in the face. That’s where Tim pauses, gagging his anger and disgust down. He checks the footage left from the video, and finds that he’s only two second from the end.

Nothing. The interrogation accomplished nothing other than the boy was found on the street.

No name, no details, no proper location, and nothing of his fate.

Tim refrains from chucking the tablet at the wall.

 

* * *

 

When Tim has been declared healthy enough, he moves to his old bedroom in Wayne Manor under the strict eye of Alfred.

As much as Dick wants to stay, he’s used all his leave for work, and Blüdhaven needs their hero back.

It’s for the best.

People always comment on Jason’s temper, but what they don’t realise is that Dick’s is just as bad. It’s a toxic relationship, Dick and his temper, and it’s a raw, hideous kind of rage that he always regrets afterwards.

And Dick had always been the closest to Damian, so it’s a guarantee that things between Bruce and him are chillier than ever before. The usual whenever the Joker is involved with their family business.

“Don’t hesitate to call me whenever you want to talk,” Dick tells him. “God knows Bruce won’t. Jay’s avoiding me as usual but same deal goes to him.”

Dick leans over and carefully, oh so carefully, gathers Tim in his arms and hugs him, making nineteen year old Tim feel warm and safe and thirteen all over again.

Dick tries so hard to hold them together as a unit. He’s always trying so hard to be the big brother he wasn’t to Jason. Sometimes his methods are unorthodox, and sometimes a little unwanted, but there’s nothing but adoration in Tim as he sinks into the hug.

“I will,” Tim mumbles into Dick’s collar bone. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

 

* * *

 

Dick leaves and Damian stays comatose.

As far as the public is aware, due to a motorboat accident, Tim Drake has taken indefinite leave from Wayne Enterprises to recuperate and Damian Wayne has withdrawn out of school to do the same.

It’s extremely rare for an induced coma to last more than a couple of days. But then again, everything about their family flutters on the borders of extremely rare.

The knowledge strains everyone’s smiles.

Nevertheless, life moves on.

Maybe it’s the newfound solidarity at having been brutalised by the Joker, but it becomes routine for Jason to drop by Tim’s bedroom. He pops in and out with a frequency that meant that Jason’s sleeping schedules is almost as bad as his. It’s during one of these visits that Jason finally finds some of Tim’s most prized possessions.

Jason whistles. He flips a page of Tim’s photo albums.

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” Jason says. “Actually, what am I saying? I can’t judge for shit; these pictures are better than the ones I could take right here, right now. How old were you when you took this again?”

Today started as a bad day. Something about the rain made his limbs ten times achier, and his mind is merciless in coupling up images of Damian scowling at the weather. Every twinge of his muscle takes him back to the night in the warehouse.

Tim really didn’t want to deal with that.

He took his stronger painkillers before Jason showed up. Now, his body feels numb and he's lifted high up into the clouds. Propped up against pillows, the lilt of Jason’s tone pulls Tim from where he’s floating in his head.

“Tim?"

“Hmm?” Tim peels one heavy eyelid open and peers at the album. “That picture of Dick? Album’s chronological, but I was ten when I took that photo.”

Dick is flying through the air in that photo, arms open and legs together with a smile that vibrates off the page. A static photo dynamic from Dick’s obvious passion of acrobatics. It’s one of his absolute favourites.

Jason snorts. “Stalker.”

Tim’s not sure if it’s because of the drugs, but Jason sounds almost fond. That aside, his day just got a million time brighter, and his chest a thousand pounds lighter. Compliments about his photo always leaves him glowing.

“Gotta admit, though,” Jason says as he flips through the book, “there’s Dick and Bruce, and Dick then Bruce—kinda offended that you didn’t take any photos of me as a kid.”

“I took photos of you.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.” Tim nods. “You just have your own separate album.”

“My own album, huh.” A grin eats up Jason’s face. “No Brucie or Dickiebird anywhere to be found?”

“A bit. Mostly just you though.” Tim’s tongue blurts before he could rein it in. “You’re my favourite, you know?”

If Tim hadn’t been too busy fighting the drag of his lolling head, he would have seen Jason’s eyebrows rising in shock. As it is, Tim is too busy replaying the conversation in his head for his comprehension skills to catch up with his mouth..

Tim raises one hand to wipe his face. “Ah, sorry. Forgot how creepy that sounded. Having a small kid following you around and taking your picture everywhere you go. Scratch that, it sounds creepy because it _is_ creepy. Sorry, again. I’m blabbering. It’s the drugs. ”

Jason blink himself out of his shock. “I was your favourite?” he prompts.

“You were― _are_ my favourite Robin. God knows how much of a hard choice Damian—” his voice falters a bit, “―Damian made it be.”

Tim offers a smile with the joke but the smile felt too stretch and too thin. Evidently, Jason notices because he bites back at their previous topic.

“Really?” Jason asks in wonder. “Well that just really tickles my pickle, Tim.”

A laugh breaks out of him. “I thought only the elderly say that, Jay. I never knew you were turning sixty this year.”

“Got the hair for it.” Jason flicks a finger at his fringe. “It makes my day that you’d pick me over Dickiebird.”

“I shocked even myself. Especially since Dick always wore the costume better than any of us, including Steph.”

“Not fair, since Dickiebird could look good in a potato sack. Is this my album?” Jason holds up a particularly thick one. “It’s heavy as fuck.”

A tad embarrassed, Tim nods and gestures a go-ahead at Jason. He never labels the front of his photo albums, partly because he never wanted anyone to come across it and be curious of its contents.

Honestly, he never actually meant to bring his pictures to anyone’s eyes other than his own. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t show it to Jason, but right now he’s light-headed and content. A small part inside of him that craves validation for his pictures. Especially from Jason, the Robin that impacted him the most.

Tim definitely enjoys Jason’s awe. It makes him want to grin. Each picture was dripping from tiny Tim’s admiration for Jason and it’s fitting that Jason is admiring the pictures now.

They fall into a silence that’s broken by the rustling of his album..

“Any good?” Tim asks.

“Good? They’re amazing!” Jason thumbs the corner of a page. “I just—wow, Tim. _Wow._ I just never thought somebody looked at me and saw anything more than a filthy hood-rat when I was younger. I didn’t have many friends when I was at school or when I was with my own Titans, you know? Aside from Alfred, of course.”

“Of course,” Tim repeats, because Alfred would never see any of Bruce’s kids as anything less than precious. “You didn’t get along with the Titans? And what about Dick?”

Jason shrugs. “Dick was too busy back then to visit me much,” he says. “He was still very angry at Bruce. And I never got along with the Titans that well, either. So I didn’t really make any good friends until Roy and Kori.”

“Oh.” Honestly, Tim’s heart is breaking. “That’s—uh, sad.”

Jason never told him much of his past, but his happiness from the photos must have gotten him chatty. Here is Tim with his awkwardness that, no matter how high the dosage, that could never be tampered by drugs.

A childhood and career with vigilantism without friends. Tim can’t imagine his younger years without Kon, Bart, Steph, and Cass. They’re what keeps him grounded.

It must have been lonely for Jason.

Tim wishes that he was a little less of a coward. What if he had the guts to approach Jason when he was younger? Would he be as integrated in the family as he is now? Would Jason have still been as lonely with Tim around?

“I’m pretty over it, to be honest,” Jason says. “I used to talk to this one gargoyle statue a lot, but last I checked it’s been blown to smithereens—did I always look this grumpy?”

Jason holds the book up grinning to a picture of him, so much shorter than he is now, folding his arms and tightening his jaw. The picture is shot over Bruce’s shoulder, far away so only the back of Bruce’s cowl was in the picture.

He had such chubby cheeks back then—it’s a talent to pour that much rebellion in a face as adorable as a baby chipmunk’s.

“Yeah. You did. You still do,” Tim says. “It’s my favourite thing; how you’re always ready to fight. How you always seem to be ready to take on the world, be angry at the people that needed to be angry with, then be kind to the people that needed to be kind with. Dick is _the_ Robin. My idolization of Robin but you—you made Robin feel more tangible to me.”

Tim remembers taking that photo. He remember his heart swelling three times its size as he watched Robin help shoulder a homeless man twice his size into a shelter as the man convulsed into coughs. It had been a rainy day as well, much like today, and Jason came back to visit the man until he man managed to smile and laugh at Jason’s cocky stories, essentially charming his way the rest of the shelter—and not to mention, Tim.

“Jesus, Tim,” Jason says. “It’s was basically a storm that day. Your parents weren’t worried about you?”

“Didn’t matter. They weren’t around.” Tim stifles a yawn. “Always out of the country traveling for business. Not that I’m saying that I had a bad childhood, no. Not at all. It’s just that the nanny they hired never checked my bedroom past bed time, so I just got took my camera and snuck out. Much better way to spend my time than staring at walls.”

Jason raises one eyebrow. “No friends?”

“No friends.” Tim sinks backwards into his pillows. “Was a pretty reclusive kid. Just me and my camera.”

“And me, of course.”

“And you, of course.”

Tim mimes clicking on his camera to capture a photo of Jason, and Jason laughs.

Something about the way Jason is tilting his head and considering him tells Tim that he should sit up straighter and take notice, but Tim is fluttering on the edge of awareness and sleep, cushioned by his soft pillows. He’s content to listen to the rain and let Jason flip through the albums as much as he wants.

“It’s a shame.”

“What’s a shame?” Tim asks.

“It’s a shame that we didn’t meet when we were younger. We could’ve skipped all the fighting and the Pit madness and jumped to where we are right now—with the pictures and the chess. But without you recuperating in bed.”

Hearing something like that from his childhood idol sends his heart _soaring._ No matter how explosive their relationship was when Jason first came back to Gotham.

Stopping his heart from breaking out of his chest, Tim graces Jason with a small smile.

It doesn’t feel thin and it doesn’t feel stretched.

Jason quirks a smile back.

He could definitely get used to the way Jason smiles at him.

“It’s a shame, indeed,” Tim says.

 

* * *

 

“That’s an interesting move,” Tim says. “A very interesting move to make. Too bad I’m still obliterating you.”

“Shut up. It’s your turn.” Jason regards the chessboard in front of him before glaring at him. “Never took you as a trash-talker, Tim. Not a good look on you.”

“That what losers say, Jason. Losers who are three moves away from losing your queen,” Tim says. “Who needs good looks when you’re winning?”  

“Geez, you are one _mean_ chess player,” Jason mutters under his breath. “The power’s all gone to your head.”

“Once again, that’s what the losers always say before they _lose.”_

“Move, Drake. Before I move a piece for you.”

They’re celebrating Tim’s leg cast removal by playing chess outside, since it’s been weeks of a routine of rest, recuperation and therapy. Dick and Barbara’s been hovering around him, and Steph and Cass has been skyping him more often from Hong Kong. Kon and Bart visits at least twice a week and Tim basically messages them every day.

Most of his day, however, are spent with Jason whenever Jason’s off-duty.

Jason brings his favourite movies and books in exchange for raiding Tim’s personal library. Tim welcomes the intrusion of bright red and opinionated rants in the humming of his days. Sometimes all they will do is read, lingering in Damian’s hospital room with a book in their laps, and it doesn’t feel like he’s alone even though he’s left to his own devices.

Roy and Kori dropped by at one point, brought by Jason. Tim almost suffocated in Kori’s overwhelming—ahem— _hug,_ while Roy snickered in the background. Which was fun, Tim hasn’t been hugged in a long while.

Tim is learning so many new facets to Jason. His crappy jokes, the way he recites lines from classic books as easily as song lyrics, his undying worship for Wonder Woman, and the plasticity of his mind presents a new and fresh perspective to Tim. Jason’s chess skills are improving at a rapid speed, and Tim finds their games more challenging than before.

Jason moves a pawn. “None of my sources have had any luck finding any news about your boy.”

And of course, Tim lives for work updates.

Tim grabs a bishop, ready to slaughter Jason’s knight. “Have they found the warehouse owner’s body?” he asks

“They have.” Jason grimaces. “Found him with a smile on his face and Joker’s toxins in his system.”

Tim drops his chess piece, clenches his fist, suddenly losing all his urge to play.

Jason sighs, move to unclench Tim’s fist.

“Tim,” he tries.

“That’s another person dead under our noses—have I always been this much of a god-damn failure, Jason?” Tim asks. “There’s no strategy, no forewarning to his—to his _madness_. If we can call it that. The Joker’s beyond anything a doctor can diagnose. How many people have died right under our noses and that we still wouldn’t have an inkling of knowledge about?”

“Tim, don’t fucking do that to yourself,” Jason says. “We’re not omniscient. People die from crimes that escape our notice every day. We can’t stop that; we can only hope to control it.”

A smile flitters on the edge of his face. “That’s what you said to Bruce when you first came back.”

“Still stand by it.” Jason moves his thumb over Tim’s palm.

Soothing him. Tim allows his hand to uncurl.

“Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t put a bullet in the Joker’s head yet,” Jason begins. “Maybe it’s for myself, hell, maybe it’s the other way around and I should do it for my own peace of mind. I really don’t know at times. I don’t know if it’s better to hold off staining my hands with more blood than it already has in the name of helping people.”

The callouses on his thumb gives Tim a point to concentrate on. Not this simmering, bubbling hurt that appeared all of a sudden.

“No, I wonder about that too,” Tim says. “As controlled as our movements are, as much as Bruce trains us—it’s naïve to think that everyone involved in our missions escape unscathed. It’s always in my head, how many of the injuries I’ve inflicted onto people have ended up fatal? It makes me wonder what I’m doing trying to save lives with dirty hands.”

“It’s because someone’s got to and you’re too fucking nice not to,” Jason says. “Kinda like Diana.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “I get it, Jay. You really love Diana. She’s amazing and wise and beautiful, and you’d die for her. You’d die again to be born a Themysciran and train under the Amazons until you could flip a tank—”

“As I was saying,” Jason cuts in, “I meant how you didn’t need a tragedy to decide that you wanted to help people. I think if a lot of people had that same idea, the world would be a nicer place.”

Heart fluttering and a little flushed, Tim looks away. He coughs a bit. “I could say the same about you,” Tim points out.

“Hell no,” Jason says. “My childhood was a slow acting tragedy.”

Tim winces. “Ah—right. That’s right. Sorry.”

“I’m just lucky I got out,” Jason says, moving his knight out of the way. “I’m lucky that Bruce gave me an opportunity to get out. Not everybody gets to get out of street life that easily.”

And it’s a tragedy, Tim thinks, because there are people that can never escape whenever Gotham becomes a playing ground for Batman and his villains.

Which leads him back to the Joker and the boy they have absolutely no lead on.

Jason squeezes his hand, before letting go. “When did our conversation get so dire?” he asks. “Weren’t we out here celebrating for your recovery?”

Tim sighs. “Yeah, we were. Want to go catch a movie?”

 

* * *

 

Funnily enough, his arm needed a couple more weeks more than his leg to heal. Once it was taken off, Tim refrained himself from doing a backflip in the doctor’s office.

He missed the mobility. He missed the sensation of air breathing on his skin and the warmth of a loosened limb. He’s never been a natural fighter to begin with, but now he has a lot of work to do before he could build up the muscle mass, flexibility, and reflexes he had before the incident.

He also kind of misses having someone around the house. Now that he’s moved back into his flat, he doesn’t have the background humming of Alfred moving around, or the silent buzzing of Bruce being antisocial.

Tim tells himself this, as he breaks into one of Jason’s safe houses.

While Tim taps through his phone, trying to slip into Jason’s security system, his phone rings.

Caught, Tim answers with a very innocent, “Hello?”

“I’ve got a lead on the boy on the tape,” Jason says. “Are you good to gear up and join or should I turn on my live feed—are you, are you breaking into one of my safe houses?”

“Uh,” Tim says. “Maybe.”

“Babs messaged me.”

“You’re a better cook than me,” Tim explains him. “And you always have food in the fridge.”

“Tim, I gave you a key.”

Tim knew he forgot something before he left. “I left it at Wayne Manor,” he says. “Anyway, the boy?”     

A sigh. So exasperated that makes Tim want to chuckle. “Such a goddamn fucking cat,” Jason mutters before saying loudly, “How fast can you get yourself to Crime Alley?”

All thought of food gone, Tim answers. “Give me twenty minutes.”

 

* * *

 

Why he expected Gotham’s sewers to smell like anything other than filth, Tim doesn’t know.

Tim can only describe it by retching, and knowing that the smell will sink into his nostrils and linger long after he leaves. Couple that with the stretching darkness in front of them and it’s not a pleasant experience. Maybe that’s the reason Jason’s source agreed to meet here; to deter anyone that could be following them.

Holding the flashlight, Jason leads and Tim sticks close, because in the silence, it’s hard not to expect a shrieking laughter to pierce it.  

And Jason lets him. From what Tim recalls Jason telling him, being underground is a bit stuffy. A little like trying to catch his breath in a coffin.

They take a left, and Tim could make out a shadow. Someone waits for them there. Sweatshirt drawn up, flashlight and hat in pocket, it’s difficult to distinguish any other feature in this lighting.

The voice is high but not squeaky, thick with a Gotham accent. Possibly, a boy near Damian’s age.

Jason steps forward. He softens his voice. “Heard you got a message for me, kid.”

The boy looks between the two of them and stiffens. “I thought we’re doing this alone.”

“It’s just Red Robin,” Jason says. “No one dangerous.” The flashlight flicks to the Red Robin logo. “See? The real deal right here.”

A second pause where the boy hesitates. “All right. Nothing shady right, Hood? Heard you’re one of the good ones.”

“You heard right.”

“Okay, okay,” the boy says, more to himself than to his audience. “Heard you were looking for anybody that’s made a deal with the Joker in past the few weeks.”

“I am.”

“I’m an errand boy for the Maroni family, or I _was_ —I’m not anymore. Not after what happened.”

Tim and Jason glances at each other.

The Maroni family is a crime family famous for their brutality. The head of the family had once, after all, been involved in the origin of Two-Face. Even though it was dark, Jason and Tim exchanged a look.

“Do you need help getting out?” Jason asks. “Tell me if you need help getting out, kid. Red Robin and I, we can arrange something for you. ”

The boy exhales, a little shaky. “Thanks, Hood. The kids are always talking about how you look out for us street rats, and it’s good to know they’re right. But I’m okay now. I’m with a good family now.”

“But you know how to reach me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“What happened a couple of weeks ago?” Tim asks.

“The Joker happened,” the boy answers with a tremor in his voice. “He came to the Maroni family asking to borrow some boys, and they said yes. Of course they said yes. Even the Maroni are terrified of him. If the Joker tell you to jump, you don’t say, ‘no’ unless you have a death wish, you get me?”

Jason steps forward. “No one’s blaming you for doing what you got to do to survive, kid.”

“Yeah, okay,” the boy says, looking down. “The Maroni family—they gave me and Terry to the Joker because we’re errand boys. We’ve got no one waiting for us at home. No one blinks when we’re gone. He takes us to the docks and asks which one of us can swim. I tell him I can and Terry can’t. He’s younger and he doesn’t really know how to swim. No one’s bothered to teach him us kids anything or let us near the pools—”

He boy breaks off, trying to control his rapid breathing.

“He pushes Terry over and I told him that Terry can’t swim and he’s not doing anything—he just _laughs_ while Terry’s crying at me to help. I was going to jump after him, I swear I was! I couldn’t just let him _drown!_ So the Joker pulls a gun out on me, and he pulls out a tape recorder on the other, and he tells Terry to cry out louder if he doesn’t want both me and him to die.”

Jason breathes in. “ _Jesus.”_

“He’s a fucking _maniac,_ but he lets me go after Terry once he’s _happy._ So I go and get Terry out, and we get ourselves the fuck away from him. And I thought he was okay for a while, you know? Then he tells me one day that he’s got shoulder pains, and it’s hard to breath and he falls asleep and he—“ the boy break off into sniffs and wipes his sleeve against his nose. “I thought we were _okay_. I thought we made it long enough to get out of there in one piece. But Terry he—he falls asleep and then he _never wakes up_. ‘Dry drowning’ one of the older girls told me.”

Tim’s heart aches for this boy. This brave, courageous boy. Dry drowning is such a rarity that his heart fractures for the boy and Terry for escaping death so narrowly only to be sucker punched by it in the end.

_Survive until help arrives._

Sometimes, it’s just too _late_.

“No one wants to talk about it because they don’t want Batman knocking on their doors for dealing with him. No one wants to rat on the Joker because everybody knows that the Joker _hates_ snitches. You don’t want to be a snitch when the Joker comes back. And he will come back; everybody knows that. He always does. Batman catches him but he always comes back.

“So everybody forgets about Terry and pretends like he never existed.” The boy clenches his fist. “But I won’t. I won’t be like everybody else. Terry was my friend and I will never forget him.”

“What’s your name, kid?” Tim asks.

“Lark,” the boy answers. “My friends call me Lark.”

 

* * *

 

The trip home is silent. Heavy and laden with grief, loathing, and so, so much anger.

Only when they reach the safe house, do they let their emotions bleed through.

 _“I’ll kill him_.”

The door smacks open and bounces off the wall before it’s slammed shut.

“I should’ve killed that fucking _bastard_ first chance—that shit stain doesn’t _deserve_ to live,” Jason swears. “Preying on children like that, that piece of shit—”

Jason rips his helmet off and falls back onto the couch. He rubs his hands furiously over his face. His eyes are red.

In contrast, Tim is numb.

How could he have been so careless?  How could he have been so wrapped up in his life as a vigilante to forget about the people living under the Joker’s thumb?

He’s always left Joker unscathed for his own morality, thinking himself superior for showing an enemy mercy, but it’s people who can’t escape him that pays the price. The people who don’t have enough money to move, or pay for protection, or access medical care, or live their lives away from Joker’s playing grounds—they’re the ones that suffer.

Tim feels hollowed out by the anger he feels—the anger towards himself. Tim was supposed to protect the people unable to protect themselves. He took up the mask specifically to fight extremists like the Joker. He became Robin because he wanted to help people.

How many others have suffered and died in his ignorance?

Tim sits on the couch, leans his head against Jason’s shoulders. He breathes in and tries to blink his own frustrated tears away.

“How did it end up like this, Jay?” Tim asks. “How did I end up failing them so bad?”

Jason doesn’t refute him, plagued by his own demons clawing in his head. Instead, Jason brings a hand to direct Tim’s head so that Jason can rest his own on top.

Together, they mourn for the lives that Gotham has lost.

 

* * *

 

Jason asks him to stay the night.

Tim accepts.

Tim doesn’t feel like being alone tonight. It seems that Jason’s got the same idea.

He doesn’t really know what to make of his relationship with Jason. They’re close, but not in the way that Dick and him are close, or the way Tim and Barbara are close.

For one, Tim never grew up with Jason, only of his stories, his death and the grief that lingered after. Getting to know the real, tangible being was more than he could ever hope for.

A tether—that’s one way to describe it. A solid hum to focus to amidst all his anger and hurt and disappointment. A soothing, grounded quality that stills his volatile emotions long enough for Tim to breathe and think.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Once they have finished, they gravitated to the couch. Tim opens his laptop, and from then begins a cascade of researching.

Batman’s reports, newspaper headlines, videos and first person encounters. Years after the event and people are still managing the after effects of Joker toxin.

Then there’s his family. He’s already lost everyone once before—he’s even had to hear his dad die over the phone—and the Joker has proven to be the closest to destroying the Bats. Everyone he loves will always be in danger from the Joker, simply because Bruce loves them as well.

The thought scares him to the core.

They’re not invincible; Kon ultimately proved that. One day, the Joker might succeed, and Tim will be left desolated with nothing but his memories and his grief to keep him company.

Tim is so, _so_ exhausted at being the one left behind.

With every second he delves into Gotham’s ugly history, it’s getting harder to find reasons why the Joker should stay alive.

Tim’s not even sure why he should steer his mind away from this topic anymore.

And Tim doesn’t realise that he’s been engrossed in the computer screen for hours until Jason stirs from where he was napping on Tim’s back.

His hands clutches Tim’s shirt. The moving warmth of his fingers pulls Tim out from the screen enough to make him blink his surroundings.

“Maybe it’s time you give it a rest, Tim,” Jason suggest, his voice rugged from sleep. “It’s not—I have to remind myself this as well—but it’s not good to obsess over these things.”

The words seem familiar, and Tim throws a small smile. “Been talking to Alfred lately?”

Jason huffs. “Surprisingly.”

“That’s good. Mother-hen Alfred worries about his birds you know.”

“Not that I need him to hover over me. Not a lone Robin anymore.” Jason slides his chin over Tim’s shoulder. “What you looking at exactly?”

Tim’s not bothered by the proximity but more comforted, anchored by the solid weight and the warmth that’s radiated by Jason’s body. He slides the computer closer to Jason.

A blueprint of Arkham Asylum lights up the page.

“Oh,” Jason says. One arm comes around to scroll down on the mouse-pad.

For someone who doesn’t like people crowding around him on account of liking his own space, Jason’s surprisingly touchy when it comes to him. Tim doesn’t mind that at all.

Tim looks around the apartment. There are various things strewn on the table; red mask, a rifle, maps, blueprint and mugs. One of the mugs have a broken handle, the one Jason’s using, and like the tatty patchwork of holes that is his blanket thrown over the couch, it catches his attention.

There’s determination to these objects—to keep functioning despite the broken parts of itself.

And Tim wonders, what part of himself would still be the caped vigilante if he were to obliterate the Joker?

“I think about it all the time too,” Jason says quietly, his eyes still on the screen, “What it means to take a gun and release the trigger on someone’s head. Do they have family waiting for them at home? Is it meaningless when somebody else will move up and take their place?”

A beat of silence, before Tim asks, “Do you ever regret it?”

“What if I said that sometimes I do, and most times I don’t?” Jason turns his head and his eyes are piercing. A plea that the insight he offers will not be rejected. “I never know what to make of myself afterwards, but I have to stick to my convictions that everything I’m doing is to end a war on Gotham’s streets.”

Tim quirks a smile. “I can see why Diana’s your favourite.”

“She ends wars, Tim. Wars that only grow more destructive as time goes on. Wars that only take more lives if left unchecked. She shows kindness, she shows mercy, but ultimately, she knows when to end it.”

Tim reflects, more to himself than to Jason, “And doesn’t it feel like a battlefield whenever the Joker comes out to play with Bruce?”

He didn’t see the war before, but he sees it now. The names, the people that have been turned to numbers to account for casualties—they’re damning.

“You shouldn’t have to bear that burden alone,” Tim whispers.

Jason lifts an eyebrow. “What are you saying, Tim?”

“I’m saying that I want to help,” Tim says, full of conviction. “I’m saying that I have a plan.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta:  
> [phoenixrisingdusk](http://phoenixrisingdusk.tumblr.com)  
> 

Tim meets Barbara at a quaint little café lined with old bookshelves, one of Barbara's favourites. They sit towards the back, folded by the comforting smell of paperback, but Tim can still see people walk by the huge glass window at the front. Good view, good music, and good privacy for anything that comes across their minds.

He’s not sure how to slide into the conversation he wants, but Barbara has always appreciated brute honesty. After a couple sips of his own brand of liquid courage, Tim cuts straight to the heart of matters.

“I’ve been thinking lately.”

From just the tone, Barbara lifts an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”

“I could try it again in a happier tone for you?”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Leave that to Steph and Cass.” A smile can be seen over the top of her coffee cup. “Jason, however, has been in a much friendlier mood, don’t you think?”

Tim doesn’t even twitch. “He’s still pretty crabby to me.”

“Everyone seems crabby to you, especially during the mornings. That’s because you’re crabby yourself. You know, there’s thing called sleep; you should try it someday. Might find that you’re secretly a morning squirrel.”

“Dear God.”

The absolute horror in his tone sends Barbara snorting. No matter how much caffeine a person can pump into Tim’s veins, he will never be a morning person.

“I’ve been helping him with patrols,” Tim says. “Easing myself back into the routine by shadowing him. It’s productive this way. Together we cover more ground than alone at night. And during the day, I get to see all the Wayne Foundation charities at work. I’m getting myself reacquainted with the nooks and crannies of good ol’ Gotham.”

“You know,” Barbara begins, “no one would blame you if you took a little more time off.”

“I think I’m ready to be back on the field again,” Tim says. “Plus, I passed all the psych evals.”

“That’s just it, Tim," she says. "History shows that us Bats have a bad habit of pushing ourselves too far too soon.” Barbara leans her head against one hand. “And I know you’ve been easing yourself back in long before you got your psych evals cleared.”

Tim widens his eyes and tries his hardest to emulate innocence. It doesn’t work, of course, but it does make Barbara laugh. That’s always a winning point for Tim.

It’s good to see Barbara laugh.

Especially because of the next sucker punch Tim’s about to land.

“If you could stop the Joker, forever, would you?”

Barbara breathes in, but doesn’t show any other kind of reaction. Her face is the perfect reflection of the one a minute before.

It’s funny that someone as warm and bright could adorn such a stoic mask as well as she does.

“What brought this on?” she asks.

“Jason and I,” Tim begins with caution, “have realised that it’s not feasible to let the Joker run around as freely as he does anymore. I’ve failed people by standing on the side-lines and letting him wreak havoc. I won’t stand by and fail anymore when I can do something about it.”

Barbara doesn’t move. “And you need my help with a plan of yours?”

“You assume that I already have a plan.”

Barbara chuckle. “I know you, Tim. The young boy who falsified papers for a fake uncle just so that Bruce wouldn’t adopt him always has a plan.”

Guilty, Tim gives her a small smile.

“But it’s not just your help,” Tim says. “Jason and I, we don’t want to do this without you. You’re our family, our friend. It’s important to us—what you think about all this.”

“And if I said no?”

“Then Jason and I will rearrange our plans and incapacitate him instead. We have many plans, but it will still be something that will stop him from hurting others again. Something more…” Tim presses his lips into a thin line,“...permanent”

There was a moment of silence that’s only broken by them sipping their drinks. Tim waits patiently as Barbara regards every second of silence with thought.

“Something about that man is irredeemable,” she says. “I see the people walking through my father’s precinct, the serial killers and abusers, and somehow none of them can compare to the Joker. There’s no point of return from where’s he is at, because he doesn’t want to return anyway. The way he flaunts his crimes; it’s _repulsive_.”

Barbara looks out at the windows, at the people walking by.

“He doesn’t get to define who I am, but—” Barbara clenches her fist. “God, it angers me that with nothing more but a couple callous words in front of a crowd and everything—all of my accomplishments are diminished. I’ll always be nothing more but a ‘victim’ to him.”

The muscles of her tenses before releasing, knowing that the cups they hold would break with any more force. The poor café owner doesn’t deserve that.

Then she laughs. A dry, tired one. “But you already know what my answer would be before coming here to ask.”

Tim doesn’t dare glance away. “I do.”

“How?”

“Because I know you.”

A corner of her lips flicks upwards. “So, what have you got so far?”

 

* * *

 

Over the next two weeks, a new contender decides to make themselves known in Gotham.

A series of lootings hits even the most secure Gotham neighbourhood. Small, petty burglary that escalates once it becomes noticeable that all their targets are high-profile members of the Gotham underworld. Multiple warehouses in separate gang turfs are ambushed and robbed. Camera footage showed men in garish clown masks as the perpetrators.

No other trace is ever left behind, except for one; a graffiti of a smiling clown. Cruddy strokes made with spray cans that instils a wariness in the picture’s undeniable familiarity.

Tension coated the streets of Gotham as the city begins to hush itself. These crimes feel like a tribute, a gift. Yet, everyone knows that the Joker is still in Arkham, and everyone knows that Harley’s heart is not with him anymore.

It only took two more hits for the newspapers to deem that the Joker has a new admirer.

 

* * *

 

Tim looks up from where he's tinkering with machinery on the kitchen isle when Jason chucks a newspaper at the coffee table. Beside the newspaper, Bruce's voice bounces from Tim’s phone.

"Harley and Ivy have confirmed that they're not a part of whatever this scheme is," Bruce says. "So we have a new player. No patterns, no digital trace. Whoever is doing this is definitely experienced. Keep vigilant on your patrols tonight. See if you can find any leads on them."

Tim hums, never leaving his machinery. "Will do. Catch up with you later, Bruce."

It's only when the phone's dial tone comes on, that Jason finally speaks.

"It feels too damn easy."

"About Bruce?"

"Yeah, about Bruce." Jason rubs a hand on his jaw. "He's one of the most paranoid person I know, and we're doing this right under his nose."

"He has no reason to suspect us," Tim says. "On top of that, we don’t cause any civilian casualty compared to the rest of his Rogues Gallery. The Joker’s still in Arkham; so we’re low priority for him. When he does start to suspect, he'll just do what he always does when it concerns someone close to him; repress and deny it until it blows up on his face and he’s forced to deal with it."

"Savage."

Tim shrugs before going back to observing the device on his hand.

It's imperative that the device is absolutely impeccable for their plan to succeed. Tim will stand for nothing but perfection.

Jason looks at him from over the top of his coffee mug. He waves at the tools at the table. "Not judging or anything, since I'm not in a position to do so anyway, but why didn't you go to college for these kinds of things?"

Tim scrunches his nose. "I'm not good with structure, and school, and institutions and stuff. Prefer to do things at my own pace."

"Damn, That’s interesting.” Jason tilts his head. “I wouldn’t have pegged that from how you are the acting CEO whenever Bruce lops off for League duty."

"That's different. _"_ Tim waves his screwdriver around for emphasis. “It is what it is; I’m good at it but work is just _work._ I kinda prefer it like that anyway, because then I can come home and do my own thing. Study off of Cyborg’s and Lucius’ notes. No college officiated restrictions or regulations."

“Not sure if I should be comforted about that or not,” Jason tells him.

Tim’s smile is full of innocence. Then he takes the opportunity to bring up a question that Tim's been curious about for a while.

"Why aren't you in college, Jay?" Tim asks. "A huge nerd like you would definitely fit in."

Jason raises his eyebrows, before pointedly looking at the table and then at his shirt.

That’s right, Tim’s wearing an orange D&D t-shirt.

Tim sniffs. "Judge me all you want, but I'm not the one who willingly, and _happily,_ went to a museum in my spare time for extra credit."

Jason narrows his eyes. "Who told you that?"

"Who do you think? Alfred, duh."

"That absolute traitor. Can’t believe that Alfred would stab me in the back like that," Jason mutters. "Thought he was on my side; I've got a reputation to keep, here."

Tim pauses, incredulous. "Jay, you're the biggest marshmallow in the family," Tim accuses. "Even bigger than Dick and Steph! You did the most clichéd thing in the world and saved a cat stuck up on a tree. I thought that only happened in movies and comics."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Timmers,” Jason says. ”That never happened."

"Anyway,” Tim leans forward, “back to the question?"

Jason sighs at Tim. "I’d like to, really I would, but I have this small, itty-bitty, miniscule issue of being legally deceased."

Tim snorts. "That's easily workable, even if you don’t want to bring Jason Todd-Wayne back to life and face media backlash. Nothing that our connection couldn’t fix. We could pass it off as another case of the Mandela effect, or you could be another Jason Todd from Metropolis seeking education at Gotham U. A fake alias, if we're really paranoid."

"It's still too risky," Jason says. "I'm not willing to pursue a higher education without my name. Because it's my accomplishment, you know? And my name's one of the only things from my childhood I've always been proud of."

"Fair enough." Tim throws a comforting smile at him. "What you look like now is worlds different than the small Jason Todd Wayne that went missing in Ethiopia. I think you should really think about it. I see you really thriving in such an academic environment, and I can see you championing policies that could really do Gotham some good."

That’s what he’s grown to admire about Jason, his passion and his engagement with the community.  Tim passion burns a little differently to Jason’s; equally, but not with the kind of vivid vibrancy that inspires other people stand up and make their own changes. That’s something Jason has in spades. Something that will drive his success in any field he chooses to go into.

Jason sips his mug, deep in his thought.

Tim waits, knowing that Jason will talk when he's ready. What they have between them is cosy and comfortable. It never takes long for the other one to spill open.  

"I had such big dreams to make something of myself before I—before I died. Then I came back to life, and somehow I've just stopped imagining what my own future might be like."

"Because you thought you'd never make it this far?"

"Well, yeah." Jason scratches the back of his neck. "It just seems so improbable considering the dangers we face every day, you get me?"

"Yeah, I get you." Tim looks down. "Sometimes, I—well. For the longest time, I didn't think I'd reach twenty. Now that it’s so close—it surprised me, I guess. I can see it on the horizon, even though I almost—"

Tim trails off and Jason lets him. It’s been weeks yet, sometimes, it still throbs and weeps like it’s new.

"It's different now," Tim says, honesty dripping through. "I can see myself doing things, having small reachable goals to look forward to—like Alfred's family meals, skype calls with everyone, the days I get to smuggle Kon and Bart into Gotham so we can hang out. There’s the time I’ll finally be able to visit Cass in Hong Kong for a proper family holiday like I promised her. And the days I get to harass Damian for having human emotions when—”

Tim swallows a lump on his throat. “When,” he tries again, “or _if_ he ever brings a date home. Honestly, I’d do it for every time he makes a genuine human connection with somebody else. "

Damian’s name doesn’t lie as heavily on his tongue. Still dense, but easier to bear knowing that retribution for him is on its way.

"And if you ever enrol into college then I'd have your graduation to look forward to in the long run," Tim says. "I'd be able to call you out on being the big nerd that you are, and Dick wouldn't release you from his octopus arms until he's satisfied that he's hugged you enough."

"You've got a mean streak, baby-bird. Always wanting to see me suffocate in Dick’s arms," Jason says, grinning. "But that's a real convincing argument you make."

Tim perks up. "So you'll think about it?"

"Yeah, I will," Jason confirms. "Joker first, okay?"

Tim nods. "Joker first."

 

* * *

 

The Joker's admirer continues to strike with a precision that slithers under Batman's radar. 

Their sites are clean but never too clean. Trails are always left behind, painstakingly mapped out, over and over, in a way that misleads as much as they lead. Oracle filters the information that comes in and out, and they’ve decided to let Jason take charge with the actual crimes since Jason has been the most successful at eluding Bruce when he first appeared as the Red Hood.

(Fake uncles notwithstanding.)

A part of the why Batman hasn’t breathed down their necks so hard is because the lack of human casualties in their crimes, only destruction of property. They hurt, they bruise and they broke, but never with the fatality of Gotham’s Rogues.

It’s inevitable, however, that a confrontation would occur.

But that’s all planned as well, of course.

 

* * *

 

Neon lights lines the sigh of the garish hotel in which Tim is crouching across from. It stands a two storeys taller than the buildings surrounding it. In Tim’s opinion, the lighting fits an abandoned carnival more than a hotel, but Penguin has never been a man of good taste.

Voices buzz from a small electronic screen in his hand. Bruce planted this bug in a tiny crevice of Penguin’s office almost a year ago, and it still hasn’t been swept out. From the sounds of it, Bruce is going to have his hands full. There’s at least three separate bosses with two bodyguards each on top of Penguin’s own goons in the building.

The plan is—Bruce’s plan is—for Tim to swing through the window once Bruce bursts in, and they’d bust negotiations together.

What Bruce doesn’t know is that Jason’s donned a synthetic face mould of one of their bodyguards, and his fingers are itching to drop a canister of low dosage Joker venom at any point of the negotiation.

Just to make a point. Nothing fatal. Tim, Babs and Jason pulled and stretched samples apart to ensure that it wouldn’t cause any permanent damage.

So Tim waits. He breathes in the sweet Gotham smog, almost chokes from it, but doesn’t. He congratulates himself for doing so, and waits for Bruce to sneak in via creepy Batman style.

“—you think the loony’s gonna spare us when they’ve been hitting almost everyone round the block? _Our_ block?”

Oh, they’re talking about them.

How cute.

“—need to combine all our resources, find the new guy and whack them out. Ain’t nobody got manpower like ours so why—”

_Bang!_

The sound of the door crashing open. Then, multiple loud bursts as rounds of guns are fired, and the crashing chinks of glass being broken.

 _Ah yes,_ Tim thinks. _A very sneaky entrance, Bruce._

His hands hover over the grappling gun strapped to his belt, just as there’s a hiss from the monitor. There’s a crash as a figure jumps out of the window of a smoky room to roll on the nearest rooftop and takes off running.

His com flicks on but Tim is running behind him.

“Red Robin.”

“Got it, B!”

Then it’s just Tim, Jason, and hi heart drumming to the hard slaps of his shoes against concrete.

Hot skin against the cool air. Blood roaring in his ears. He soars between rooftops with nothing but cars zooming and screeching behind him, never letting Jason out of his sight.

How he missed this.

Jason’s leading him on a merry chase closer to the business district, making him work up a sweat while dodging his batarangs with his quick footwork and flips. His moves are rougher than his usual flawless acrobatics, allowing Tim to inch closer to him second after second. They jump rooftops and scale buildings until they veer into a multi-story building under construction, running along a jungle of heavy steel beams connected into grids.

From here, the cars and streetlights are the size of toys. Tim’s so high above the ground that he feels true to his name. His heart is racing like mad but he feels lighter than he’s ever been in a while.

Jason leaps, free falling before landing on a beam two stories below Tim, and breaks into another sprint. Never losing a beat, Tim pounces.

Tim withdraws his bo staff mid-air. He snaps his staff to full length as he tucks himself in tight to spin and kick at Jason’s head. Jason turns, blocking with his forearms, sliding backwards from the momentum.

Together, they unleash a series of jabs and blocks, dancing on the narrow beam. Tim’s bow staff works like an extension to his limb and in his grip, the staff lies like a comforting greeting. They flow together, never missing a beat. As if they were adhering to choreography.

And to a point, it is.

Everything is recorded for archiving and analytical purposes through his headgear and, sometimes, his domino. It’s the Bat protocol of operation. All these blows, the showmanship, the attitude, the bloodthirsty way Jason’s aiming for his throat, it’s all to reinforce Bruce of their cover. Tim can pick out the moves, the minute changes to Jason’s fighting style that would throw Bruce off their lead as to who Jason’s identity.  

Even as Tim tenses as an uppercut to his ribs lands, his muscles are singing.

Fighting with Jason is _invigorating_.

Until it isn’t.

It’s only normal that the fight escalates to weapons, they’ve discussed it beforehand. When Jason brings out his gun, Tim will throw the batarang right into its barrel. The gun will explode, a small bang that shocks more than wound, and Jason will chuck the gun away.

In slow motion, it unravels.

Jason blocks Tim’s push-kick to his midriff by tossing Tim’s feet upwards. Tim uses the momentum to swing his other leg up, letting himself transition into a butterfly kick backwards. Flying, his body contorted in the air, Tim unbuckles another batarang from his belt the same moment Jason slips his gun from his thigh holster.

The barrel of the gun lines up between Tim’s eyes—

—and suddenly Tim’s back at the warehouse, tied and helpless. The Joker’s laughter ringing in his ear. Sharp, bitter terror on his tongue. Sick, muted laughter behind the loud clicking of a blurry barrel aimed between his eyes.

In that second, his chest constricts.

In that split second, Tim stops breathing.

Jason’s finger hesitates on the trigger—

—then Jason snaps into action, spinning his rear leg. He digs his heel into Tim’s sternum while Tim’s still in the air and kicks him off the frames.

Tim falls.

Breathless and gasping, his cape flapping below him. The terror that bubbles his lungs is almost familiar, like phantom liquid. For a split second, there is nothing but him, hurtling through the air and flashes of cement floors and vats of acid and manic laughter.

Blinking, Tim inhales.

Time, itself, slows as he suspends. The pounding in his head warps into muffled beeps and screeches of traffic.

 _I’m not there anymore,_ he says to himself. _I made it. I got out._

_I survived._

A moment of clarity that vibrates like a plucked string.

He exhales, the stifling pressure on his chest lifting—

—and twists to catch his errant, flapping cape. He snaps it open, and immediately, he’s jerked upwards, his muscles straining for one, two, three seconds, before the straining, tension coiled in his body uncurls.

Then he glides.

And the city is a beautiful, breathing creature beneath him, with glowing, vibrant lights and flurries of buzzing movement.

When he spies an opportunity to land his grappling gun, he takes it. He swings through the air lands into a roll when his feet hits the solid roof.

He flops onto the ground, boneless and weary, one knee up to rest his elbows on. Whereas his heart was racing like an engine before, it curls down until it become more palatable.

It’s not long until his com flicks on again. Bruce’s voice, usually so stern and stony, seem almost tentative.

“Robin.”

“Yeah?”

“Take the rest of the night off.”

Not a single limb in his body moves to contest the order.

 

* * *

 

Tim has one foot into the window into his own flat, before he thins his lips and decides otherwise. One moment he’s locking his window from the outside and the next he’s knocking on Jason’s window sill.

Jason slides his window up. “I have a door you know.”

There’s a small smile to his words. Jason’s in a white t-shirt and long, grey slacks. Bits of his fringe are still wet from his shower. He looks fresh, comfy and cosy.

Tim could use a little cosiness right now.

“I believe most people do, yeah,” Tim says. “Are you trying to say something?”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “It’s a hint that you should use it.”

“Let me in, you oaf. I need to shower.”

“Shower. At my place. Right. How dare I bar you from my own place?” Jason steps aside. “Someone should call the authorities.”

Ignoring him, Tim attempts to shoulder his way in, but the combination of his exhaustion and his caffeine crash results in an bumbling crawl through the window.

Swallowing a laugh, Jason closes the window. “You know where the bathroom is.”

 

* * *

 

Jason is lying back and reading on the couch when Tim shuffles close in his Superboy shirt and boxers. He purse his lips, because Jason looks very comfortable and undisturbed, something he can’t have Jason getting spoiled on.

 Arms out, he flops on top of Jason with no inch of remorse, his face smacking Jason’s chest. Tim is over one hundred pounds of muscle, wiry and dense, but Jason doesn’t flinch.

“Ow,” Jason says.

Tim sighs into Jason’s shirt.

He really should talk about it—about what happened during their fight. It’s not healthy to let it lie rotting in his chest like a decayed organ, and he knows Jason’s got half a mind on his book and the other on him, waiting for the right opportunity to catch him unguarded.

A very attentive patience that reminds Tim of Cass and the sudden emptiness of where their quiet conversations on dark rooftops used to fill.

He’s never been really good at dealing at these things without her around.

Tim wants to kick this under the bed. He wants to gather his problems into a sack, throw it out the window, put his hands over his eyes, and pretend it doesn’t exist.

God, how does he even start?

“I thought I was getting better,” Tim mumbles.

A short silence, before Jason gently closes his book shut. “Recovery never stops.”

Tim buried his face closer, because of course, Jason would know. How does anyone fully recover from dying? 

“You sound like a pamphlet.”

“Because they’re right.”

“I guess.”

Jason exhales a littler forlornly. “We’re not exactly newbies at this, aren’t we?”

Jason rest one hand on top of Tim’s head, taps his finger like a ticking clock. A little reminder that someone who understands is there to listen. All too often, Jason’s been where Tim’s stewing in right now.

Tim nudges Jason’s hand until it’s nestled between the strands of his hair. Jason wiggles his fingers, and the rough calluses coax a sigh from his weary body.

The Joker did this to him too, in the warehouse, but not like Jason. He snaked his hand into Tim’s hair, before jerking his head up to view the vat of Ace Chemicals that bubbles below them. He had pulled on his hair until his scalp stung and tears pricked eyes. He had taunted and goaded until Tim’s heart pumped a raucous rhythm, and Tim was afraid to look down because he was afraid of falling.

“Read to me?” Tim asks.

Tim’s cheek presses against soft cotton. His scalp doesn’t sting and his heart is thumping steady. He’s being lulled to sleep by the soothing rumble of Jason’s voice, and it’s peaceful, like this. Lying flat, grounded and tethered. Not falling, but sinking. Safe and warm.

He would rather remember this than the hysterical laughter of a deranged madman, and cold, harsh cement slabbed against his battered side.

 

* * *

 

It’s a slow night in his patrols when his com flicks on.

“Arkham’s under lock-down.”

Tim pauses from where he crouches on the rooftop. “Their systems?"

"Compromised. Alfred can't get a visual nor can he contact any of the personnel."

"I can be there in ten," Tim says, because Bruce wouldn't be contacting him about it if he had the situation in Arkham under control.

Tim has in it good knowledge that Bruce is on the other side of the city dealing waiting for shipment heading Two-Face's way. It would take him double the time that it would take Tim to get to Arkham in the bat-mobile, and a jet isn't conspicuous enough to be overlooked.

But Tim already knows this, he kept his motorbike close to him because of it.

Arkham Asylum resides on an island connected to the northern part of Gotham. There are sirens shrieking, circular lights whizzing, and the road that Tim follows are lined with skid-marks.

Tim doesn't need to grapple gun over its towering walls; the big, heavy steel gates are dented and swung wide open. He zooms through to stop just in front of the Asylum's double doors.

Not a single breathing thing can be seen on site.

The Asylum is vast. Empty walls, high-ceilings, plain doors with hallways that turn and twists until every pathway seems to be like the one before and the one after.

Tim’s been here too many times not to be able to navigate with his eyes closed. And he has to do so quickly since the Gotham PD are always dispatched anytime the Asylum goes under lock-down. He reaches the security room within minutes and finds it empty.

No sight of guard, bound or gagged, which he expected, but evidently Jason probably found a nice closet to throw them in.

Multiple monitors line the walls, a window to every room. Tim inspects and admires the glowing screens. Only the most dangerous are monitored around the clock, and Tim spots many of Batman’s rogue gallery behind thick, bullet-proof glass, either sitting or pacing around their cells.

On many screens are multiple people, in various grey and white uniforms, slumped over in various positions. Some are lying with their arms reaching out towards the door.

That’s the beauty of high-security doors; they're sealed so tightly that nothing could go in or go out, including dangerous prisoners or sleeping gas.

He already knew what to expect, but to see it all in front of him is a different experience. All of the high-classified prisoners are accounted for, except for one. Tim searches for the camera monitoring the Joker's cell.

It's empty.

Tim takes a breath.

And tamps down the satisfaction borne only from a job well-done.

He flicks his com on. "Batman."

"Status?"

"The security systems been overridden. Someone gathered the workers into meeting halls and rooms, before locking them in and dosing them with sleeping gas. No one seems to be hurt. All prisoners incarcerated with the exception of one."

A brief silence. "One?"

"The Joker," Tim says. "His cell is opened and he hijacked a van. The Joker's escaped."

 

* * *

 

He watches it unfold through cameras they've set up in Joker's hideout, sitting on the roof of a towering building with a tablet on his lap.

Barbara orchestrates the camera beautifully. He's transfixed as the cameras switch to keep track of the bat-mobile racing through the city, and skidding to a halt in front of the warehouse.

It's nothing but vast darkness once Bruce steps inside. His steps are calm, slow.

Wary.

Suddenly, the lights switch on. Glaring, white light that beams on the dingy, dilapidated carnival paraphernalia strewn around the warehouse. Cracked, and with paint chipping off, it’s unsettlingly fitting. But that's not what catches Bruce's attention.

In the centre of it all, as he often demands to be, is the Joker, sitting with one leg crossed on a plain, steel table. Beside him are small TVs, stacked to as a four-by-four grid spewing thick cables out in their backs. Only grey, crackling static buzzes on the screens.

He holds a tablet in his hand, and he flicks finger from one end to another.

The quality of the camera used is unparalleled. Not a single hint of feedback is filtered through, and Tim is left with the Joker _whistling_ as he swings his legs back and forth, in such acute clarity since the night—

Tim wants nothing more than to smack the tablet in his face. Preferably, again and again, until the Joker’s nothing but a pile of mashed bones gurgling up blood.

"Isn't it lovely?" the Joker asks, delighted. "Having someone who cares? Someone who's watching you? Someone who completely adores you and _admires_ you?"

Bruce doesn't reply, but the Joker knows him well.

"Ah-ah, Batsy," the Joker warns. "Put your grimy, gimmicky boomerangs away! You won't like it if my fingers accidentally slips and—oh, that's right! You can't see can't you?"

The Joker taps on his tablet. All at once, the TVs flick on. Each screen has a location and timestamp, with different angles of sewers and the underside of bridges.

On every screen is a distinct, small metal box with a rectangular screen and blinking red number.

_0:00:30_

The Joker giggles. “That’s not all, too. Look what happens when I do _this.”_

No longer is there footage of the bombs plastered onto infrastructure, no, it’s arguably more malevolent in its mundanity. On the screens are buses and cars and people, all bustling along the Gotham roads.

"And look!" The Joker flips the tablet to show a terse Bruce. "They've even programmed a big, shiny red button for me! Oh, I just adore big, shiny, red buttons. I just can't resist them!"

"Put that tablet down."

"How considerate of them! You know, it really—"

The Joker slides over the table when, seconds later, multiple batarangs embed itself from where he was seconds ago.

"Fine," he growls. No only pleasant or whimsical, his tone has morphed into a nasty snarl. "Have it your way."

He taps the screen.

The numbers flash.

_0:00:29_

The Joker puts a finger to his the corner of his mouth. A mockery of playful remorse.

“Whoops,” he says. “My finger slipped.”

Thirty seconds isn’t enough to fly to each individual place and defuse the bombs. Thirty seconds isn’t enough to evacuate any and all citizens that would be destroyed in the explosion. Thirty seconds isn’t even enough to process the images for distinct landmarks to find their locations.

But it’s enough for Bruce to deck the Joker in the jaw and rip the tablet away from his fingers.

He inserts a black USB and software upon software starts running on the tablet, ignoring the wheezy chuckles coming from the Joker sprawled on the floor. Despite the execution of file, upon file, upon file, the numbers keep thinking down.

_0:00:10_

“Running out of time, Batsy—”

“Be quiet,” Bruce orders, eyes never leaving the flashing scene. He brings out another, smaller monitor and an image of Jim Gordon flashes on.

To the untrained eye, nothing changes about Bruce. He stands tall, stands stern and intimidating, but Tim has been an avid watcher for years. Tim considers himself at least an expert in decoding Bruce’s emotions.

His shoulders slacken; a small, crushing admittance of defeat, a second to mourn for innocents caught in the crossfire. Then it squares up in resolve. A promise to mitigate the impact of the disaster and to help Gotham heal in any way he can.

Tim is in awe. Even when everything is crumbling around him, Bruce have absolute nerves of steel.

_0:00:01_

Bruce braces for the explosion. The inevitable boom that will shake the city to Its core, and the cloud of white that leave nothing but dust, debris and wreckage behind.

_0:00:00_

Nothing happens.

No boom, no shaking. No indication of destruction.

On the screen, people continue on their merry way through Gotham.

“No, no, no!”

One by one, the monitors switch to a photo of brick walls with spray painted clowns. Each adorning a mocking smile on their faces.

A crash can be heard in the room from where the Joker has pushed the TV’s over. He kicks and stomps, all the while spitting hisses and curses at the broken pieces of plastic and glass sprinkled on the floor. He doesn't notice the sure, infuriated, livid steps of Batman. Not until Batman towers behind him.

The Joker laughs nervously. "No hard feelings, eh, Bats?"

Tim closes his own tablet a mere split of a second before Bruce’s punch lands. Nerves start to bubble under his skin.

The night’s not over yet. Tim isn’t finished.

Bruce has all the pieces to solve the puzzle that Tim's laid out for him. Arguably, he already has, and he only waited for the last piece of evidence to confirm his own suspicions.

And because of that, because Bruce will shortly be itching for a confrontation, he will bundle the Joker into the van before tracking Tim through the bug Alfred stitched on to Tim suit after the Joker incident.

He stands and admires the city living and breathing below him.

And he waits.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta:  
> [phoenixrisingdusk](http://phoenixrisingdusk.tumblr.com)  
> 

Footsteps land behind him. Tim doesn’t turn around, or flinch. He squashes down the instinct urging him to do so.

"It was you."

Anger drips from Bruce's tone. There’s a small, shake of his timbre in his voice that spikes regret in Tim. It’s foreign and defiant to Bruce, and Tim regrets in twisting the knife where their trust once was.

"Correction,” Bruce says. "It was you, Jason, and Barbara that planned all those heists. All those sabotages, those false leads, terrorizing the city into thinking that there's another Harley on the loose. And that’s not even the pinnacle of it. No, the worst is breaking the Joker out of Arkham; planting bombs underground and before _handing the trigger over to the Joker's whims—"_

"When did you find out?" Tim asks, genuinely curious. "Barbara's handling of all things digital in flawless. But, I supposed it was when I messed up and Jason froze instead of shooting me.”

_"Do you not understand what you did?”_

"Would you rather the Joker broke out on his own?" Tim challenges. "Would you rather he breaks out of his cell, snaps the neck of a couple of guards before running off to his hideout to plan the next, big, desperate cry for your attention?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Did you know that the employment turnover at Arkham, due to injury and death, is higher than any other prison in the country?” Tim asks, ignoring Bruce. “It’s amazing, really. Even the numbers from Metropolis can’t compare to ours."

“Stop with the deflection,” Bruce says, his tone growing harsher, more accusing. “Stop with the lying. With the going around behind my back—I want to know why you’re doing this. Why you’re _handing_ him _bombs_ gift-wrapped when you _know_ what he’s _capable_ of—”

Tim breathes in.

He does know what the Joker’s capable of.

He knows every time he closes his eyes and phantom fingers threatens to unthread the scars that mends his skin, and he becomes vulnerable. Oh, how he dreads being vulnerable. Being vulnerable is when the Joker’s laugh, his touch, his taunts, his scratches, and his hits seeps through until Tim’s body revolts.

He hates this, and he hates that he fears this, and he knows that _this_ is all because of the Joker.

“Of course, I do,” Tim whispers harshly. His spine is ramrod straight, and he refuses to bend. “Of course, I know what he’s capable of.”

“Then why did you—”

“No,” Tim interrupts. “The better question is why do you—after years of seeing the effects of what he’s capable of—why do _you_ leave him to keep doing what he does? Because we know the song and dance by now, don’t we Bruce? You take him to Arkham. He breaks out of confinement. He kills people along the way. He kills more people in order to summon Batman. You catch him. You take him to Arkham.”

“Arkham is the most well-equipped secure place to keep someone like the Joker.”

“Four months ago,” Tim accuses. “That was the exact phrase used in a statement the Director of the Asylum released four months.” Tim catches Bruce’s eye through the cowl. “Eight casualties ago.”

A beat of silence.

Tim breaks the stare, chooses to look out to the city and not the stony hardness of Bruce’s cowl.

“We found the boy on the tape, if you’re wondering,” Tim says. “Jason and I—we—his name was Terry. Terry McGinnis. He was eight when he ran from his foster home, when the system lost track of him and he became displaced. He was nine when he got involved with the Maroni family, and he was ten when his encounter with the Joker left him dead. But age was never an issue for the Joker, was it?”

“You’re compromised by his death.”

He can hear the unspoken scolding, reducing him into a petulant child.

_You shouldn’t have let it become personal._

“He was _ten_ , Bruce,” Tim says. “The same age as Damian when he came to us. He wouldn’t have been the first one to die without us knowing.”

"We would have found out eventually. People talk."

"Who do you think the people are more afraid of out there? ” Tim asks. "Batman won't come for their family.”

Bruce’s jaw hardens. “Stop exaggerating his reign—”

“I’m not exaggerating,” Tim cuts in, giving Bruce no chance to steer the conversation. “Everyone knows he’ll come back. He’s a relentless, recurring terror, and he needs to be stopped.”

A stagnant pause from Bruce. “You don’t understand the severity of what you’re saying,” he says. 

Indignation pierces him, red-hot and blazing.

“Don’t patronize me,” Tim snaps, turning to burn him with his glare. “I know what I’m saying. He didn’t manage to bash my skull in, although not for a lack of trying. No, he stopped to throw me into a vat of acid instead. But I’m thankful for the small mercies.”

“Your anger is clouding your judgement and your purpose.” Batman steps forward. "You need to take a step back and re-evaluate your mindfulness. I know that it’s been hard these past few month, and retribution seems tempting. If you’re not coping we can find ways for you to—"

Tim's dry laughter slices through the taut tension.

The contrast between the man in the warehouse and the man on the rooftop is startling.

Pressed under the pressure of impending, wide-scale devastation, Bruce is nothing but composed. When it came to interpersonal relationships, however, he's no better than a waddling baby duck

A small flood of affection surges, unexpected and disarming, because this emotional constipation is what their family simultaneously jokes and despairs about. This issue, however, is nothing new. And weariness submerges him until he’s worn and drenched.

“Retribution?” Tim asks, suddenly exhausted. “No, not retribution. This is about _prevention_. Look at what happened in the warehouse. He had no reason to press the button, but he did it anyway. The Joker is a law unto himself—the only thing he adheres to is chaos. We’re the only ones who can stop that. We took up the cape to protect people, Bruce. Isn’t it our obligation to stop him from wrecking his havoc for now and the future?”

“Tim,” Bruce says. “Listen to yourself. What you’re rationalising is murder.”

_Murder._

Odd, how a word rings hollow in his ear when it used to strike revulsion in him.

Tim laughs. A harsh, ugly laugh. “The murder of a mass murderer is still _murder,_ I guess _…_ but don’t you think, at some point, it becomes justice?”

An appalled silence. Then, a sharp inhale.

“No.”

“This isn’t just an average criminal, Bruce,” Tim says, racing to put a word in. “This is the _Joker_ we’re talking about. A calculated, mass murderer. Any other state in this country and he would’ve been in the death penalty—“

“This conversation needs to end,” Bruce orders. He takes a step forward. “Now.”

“What? Now you won’t even listen to me?”

Clenching his fists, Bruce grits his teeth. “No, I won’t listen to you,” he says. “That’s now how we work. We’re not about pre-emptive killing, we’re about rehabilitation. We’re about second chances!”

“You’ve tried that already!” Tim refrains from tearing his hair out. “You’ve _tried_ so many times, and it never works! He still doesn’t think twice about blowing up a bunch of innocent people just because he could—”

“God damn it, Tim!” Bruce shouts, his composure gone. “Do you have idea how many times I’ve thought about it?! How easy it would be to lodge a knife in his throat, and be done with it? But we can’t work like that. Batman can’t work like that! Once you start, when does it stop? When does Batman stop becoming this city’s protector and instead another terroriser? Gotham needs Batman to stay Batman, and _Batman doesn’t kill_.”

Shocked, Tim swallows.

Because he does. He does know. He was so obsessed about it when he was younger.

And he’s never seen Bruce this angry.

What has started off as a little boy crying over the bodies of his parents, has grown into a slither of hope in a city encompassed by crime. Batman is an ideal, a symbol. A belief that even when it seems like all hope has been lost, justice will prevail.

Years ago, when he was an outsider—a nondescript, little boy looking in—it had been so clear, so distinct, the line where Bruce ended and Batman began. Then Bruce became a father to him in a way Jack never was and the line became blurred.

Then came the cold, hard realisation, one as unmalleable as stone.

Batman is, and always will be, bigger than the Wayne family.

And Batman doesn’t _kill._

Bruce breathes in from the blow. “I thought out of everyone, you’d be the one to understand,” he says quietly.

Tim, the one who recognised that Batman needed a Robin to stop Batman from brutalising the Gotham’s criminals. Tim, the one who tried his best to bring Batman out of his grief.

Tim, the one who is trying to justify murdering the Joker.

“I _do._ I do.” Tim rubs his face. “I just—”

His eyes are puffy and swollen. Tears are threatening to break out. He’s always hated fighting with Bruce.

He hates being left behind more.

“Putting aside our family—putting aside the hurt, the pain, and the grief that he’s caused anyone he comes to contact with—and his motives is clearer than glass. It’s always been about _you_.” Tim shakes his head. “Everything he does, it’s all for _you_.”

His statement succeeds in a way many supervillains have failed to do throughout their lives.

It causes Bruce to flinch.

And it makes Tim all the more tired.

“I’m not trying to guilt you Bruce,” Tim whispers. “This is just a fact. Every time, Bruce. Every time you incarcerate him, he comes back harder, stronger, more brutal and vicious than anyone’s ever seen, in order to try and break you. And people like Terry—innocent people who can’t escape him—they are the ones to pay for it. Who else needs to die for it to finally be enough?”

Lethal like the jagged edge of a knife, the question tears open a weeping wound without mercy.

The silence, and answer, that follows is damaging.

Back then, Jason wasn’t enough. They both know if Damian flatlines today then he wouldn’t be either.

“Don’t you see?” Tim asks. “He’s unstoppable, and you—you’re immovable. It already escalates. Even when neither of you move forward. ”

“What was the point of all this?” Bruce asks, weary. “To shove my failures in my face? Everyday I carry the weight of the Joker’s destruction on my shoulders. Whatever it is you have to say—I already know that, Tim. That doesn’t give you a reason to fake this whole, whole— _excursion_ to prove your point.”

“The bombs on the screen weren’t real,” Tim says, a little defeated. "The video was pre-recorded and edited.”

“The bombs on the screen?” Bruce stiffens at his phrasing. “What have you done?”

Tim shudders out a breath. "I didn't want to wait for any more people to die."

" _Answer the question, Tim._ "

"I gave him a choice," Tim says. "Remember that he could have always chosen not to press the button, but he did. He made his choice. He dealt his own hand."

Bruce doesn't reply, and the silence stretched on for more than a three seconds. When Tim looks over his shoulder, Bruce is gone.

 

* * *

 

Arms strapped to his side in a straitjacket, the Joker sits behind a small bulletproof window. Tied up as he is, there is no docility in his silence. Only a constant madness that seeps between the cracks of metals.

A muffled groan draws out, then three hollow banging as the Joker smacks the back of his head.

"What's taking so long?" the Joker whines.

He continues to mutter in between his wheezy laughter, all of which the driver ignores.

The gravel road to Arkham is a bumpy one, busy until they reach the northern part of the city that winds into the island. The usual protocol requires two armed personnel to be in the van with a criminal at all times. Easier, in that manner, to subdue the criminal should anything go wrong in the transition between Gotham and Arkham.

There is only one driver, however. And instead of driving towards the bridge that connects the main land to Arkham Island, the van heads south.

South to one of Gotham's older, empty docks, taped off due to a scheduled update foreseen to be finished in the next few years. The van parks close to the concrete transitions to wooden ports of where they load and unload ships.

One hand pinching a slither of skin on his cheek, he pulls until a thin layer peels and stretches further away from his face. The whole layer comes off, revealing his blue eyes and a white streaked fringe.

He plasters on his domino and turns on the back compartment speaker.

The Joker frowns. "Hey, you're not the usual taxi driver they sicc me with?"

"No shit," Jason says. "Don't recognise a bat-brat when you see one? I'm disappointed. You're losing your touch."

The Joker squints for a moment, for two, before scooting forward his seat. "Oh!” he says. “The zombie bat! Nice to see you again. Did you miss our quality time together. Say, you wouldn't mind letting me out of this, would you? This jacket really is not my colour. Makes me so _dreadfully_ pallid. Like a corpse! We don't want that—no offense."

Jason doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he slings an arm on the back of his seat and catches the Joker's eyes through the rear-view mirror.

How long has it been since he dreamt of this moment?

Jason can still remember, despite his blurry vision—despite the throbbing pain, dying, coming back to life and everything that came along with it—every wrinkle that folded the face of the man that spat taunts as easily as he swung the crowbar against his broken body.

Now, there are more lines weighing his face down. New scars frame his mouth, and there’s streaks of grey in between the green of his slicked hair.

The Joker is no longer the looming figure blurred behind buzzing lights, and Jason is far from the broken, beaten boy waiting for Batman to come and save him.

"Your ugly mug was the last face I saw before I died," Jason says. "I'm glad I can return the favour."

If there are any question about his last statement, Jason doesn't hear it. He slips out of the van and makes his way to where his motorbike is parked. The door closes with a resounding thud.

As Jason rides his motorbike out of the vicinity with a roar, the metal box strapped to the underside of the van ticks down to its last minute.

_0:01:00_

 

* * *

 

No matter how fast Batman can travel, he won't be fast enough to save the Joker.

Tim's little villain monologue made sure of that.

With a deafening boom, the van explodes into spectacular cloud of red, orange, and yellow. A blooming creature that rumbles and roars as it decimates. They swallow the van and melts metals like ice.

All consuming, and overwhelming. A bright flare that enraptured as much as it horrifies.

Even though he's miles away from the site of the explosion, a small orange glow is visible to him. Grey smoke billows in the distance. With every second that passes, a weight lightens from his shoulder.

The Joker may seem invincible, but he's still human. He may loom large in his terror, but he’s still made from human flesh.

Human flesh proves no match against the heat of a fire.

Bones do not necessarily melt, but they disintegrate into ash at temperatures and pressures higher than this explosion. Eventually, he or Jason will need to go back to the site and retrieve the Joker's bones for proper disposal. If Bruce doesn't get to it first, that is.

Here he watches a human being burn, and all he can think of is preventing anyone from obtaining the Joker's DNA to clone it.

Does that make him a bad person?

Tim doesn't know the answer, and he's too tired to try and figure one out. Patting dirt off his pants, he unhooks his grappling gun from his belt and makes his way close to the explosion site.

 

* * *

 

The beauty of an urban city like Gotham is in its towering heights and sprawling buildings, providing him endless points to perch and observe from.

Tim sits on the ledge of a rooftop that overlooks the docks, the police and fire department are the size of lego pieces to him, and they showed up earlier than Tim expected them to. He’d just have to retrieve the bones later, if he’s going to dissolve it in acid as planned.

"The talk with Bruce go well?"

It’s ridiculous how a mere rumble from a particular timbre could perk up his whole being and breathe a little spark of energy back into his exhausted body.

Tim hums. "Went about as expected. Did you end up running into Bruce afterwards?"

"Nah," Jason replies. "I didn’t want to. I’ve said my piece a long time ago with Bruce.”

He sits down beside Tim, and considers his words carefully with a furrow in his brow that makes. Then he rejects all that, settles with, “You okay?"

"Yeah," Tim answers. "Maybe. I don't know."

There's a moment of silence where they both watch the fire department wrangle the roaring flames.

"Do you regret it?" Jason asks.

Tim sinks sideways into Jason as he palms the question in his mind, turning it sideways, upside down and considers its weight in his hands.

 _Does_ he regret it?

A part of his mind, the part that resembles Bruce, points at the wreckage, the melted metal and charred flesh that used to contain conscious thought, and whispers accusingly, " _You did this._ "

But another part of his mind, the one that resembles Terry, the one that resembles Damian lying still on a hospital bed, stops him from reeling back and replies with, " _Yes, I did_."

For someone to change, there needs to be remorse. In all his terrible crimes, the one thing the Joker has never confessed to is remorse.

The Joker will never stop. No matter how much money Bruce has sunk into research and rehabilitation. He will never change.

After tonight, Tim might have saved the thousands of lives the Joker would hurt or killed in the future.

Yet, the Joker is still human. He lived and he breathed and Tim killed him.

Does he regret it?

"No,” Tim says. “I don't regret it."

But hurting Bruce and violating his trust?

That, Tim does regret.

As if Jason sensed his sorrow, Jason pulls Tim into a hug, and Tim buries his face in.

Jason is solid, and real, and _alive_. The constant pressure of being embraced is a constant reminder of sensation, something comforts Tim. His nose tingles from where he’s nuzzling against skin, and Jason’s heartbeat is calming. A steady and constant thumping that Tim could rely on even when waking up from his most harrowing nightmares.

With each breath in, his breathing evens out and his resolve hardens.

This is what he’s fighting for. This is what he’s protecting.

Tim made the right decision.

 

* * *

 

Barbara takes one look at their tired faces, and ushers them into her house after a long, crushing hug. The next thing Tim knows, he’s showered, changed and rolled up in the blanket on her couch. He scoots closer to Jason once Barbara slips herself beside him, and throws the blanket over her as she turns on the TV.

They all tune in the television, waiting for the news to break.

No one mentions how red Barbara’s eyes are.

 

* * *

 

Damian wakes from his coma, and the Joker stays dead.

Bruce hasn’t talked to Tim since the night from the rooftop.

Nevertheless, life moves on.

By the time Damian wakes, a flower vase has found its way to his bedside stand. Various picture frame, and animal plushies Tim snuck out from Damian’s room accompany it. Tim made sure to pick Damian’s favourites; a plushie of a brown, frowning pug, and a grey, floppy-eared rabbit. Dick bought it for Damian years ago and Damian, secretly, never had the heart to throw it away.

Groggy and agitated, Damian frowns at them first when he gains consciousness.

From then on, recovery is gradual, and Tim visits during his extended lunch break every day.

“So the Clown Prince’s demise is of his own making,” Damian says, propped up on the hospital bed. “Never took you to be the poetic kind.“

“I can be poetic if I want to,” Tim says. “Whether I want to, though, now that’s the question.”

Damian smirks. “I believe Todd’s one for prose. I figured you’d grow a talent for it, from all the times you’ve spent in each other’s company.”

Of course, Damian would find out. Dick has already visited.

Tim sighs. “I can hear you judging.”

“Your tastes are odd,” Damian says, “and so is Todd’s, but in that manner I suppose it fits.”

Tim grabs the bunny off the bedside stand. “Nice. A stellar recommendation from my own brother. I, too, will pity the person you choose when the time comes.”

As he picks the fur of one of Damian’s plushie, Tim can’t help but smile. He missed fighting with Damian.

“Father has accepted this?”

And there goes his smile.

From how carefully Damian has asked the question, they both know that he’s not talking about Tim and Jason.

“As much as anyone can expect him to,” Tim replies. “Which is not at all.”

“Yes,” Damian looks out the window, “Father is quite resolute about these things, isn’t he?”

“You know how he is. You haven’t been asleep for _that_ long.”

It occurs to Tim that the statement could be horribly offensive to someone who’s gradually recovering from a coma, but since it’s Damian he’s talking to, Damian snorts his amusement. He’s even eyeing up the poor pug plushie as if he’s about to chuck it at Tim in retaliation.

“Do you know what Father told me when I first came into his care?”

“Hm?”

“ _Justice, not vengeance,”_ Damian recites. "His games are _insidious._ You weren’t…you weren’t moving." He frowns. "I may not have chosen the most rational decisions after that.”

Damian trails off, and Tim swallows because, _oh._

 _“_ We were trained for more than half of our lives to combat him,” Damian says. “Yet we were still so helpless. I shudder to think what civilians go through when he stumbles upon them. Having him die by his own hand is fitting.”

As much as Damian clings steadfastly to Bruce’s principles, he’s also an avid champion of the particularly defenceless, whether animal or human.  It took a lot of work to turn their antagonistic relationship and step into something more companionable, and he would despair at its loss.

Inside Tim, a knot undoes itself at Damian’s admission.

Damian grimaces. “I suppose I’m more like my grandfather than I had previously thought after all.”

Tim chuckles. “Even if you do have penchant for acting like a sixty year old man in the midst of melancholy,” Tim says. “This hardly makes you the well-intentioned extremist Ra’s tends to be.”

 _Even if Bruce thinks it does,_ Tim’s mind whispers.

Ra’s would happily pave the way for a better species of human kind with the ashes of the generation before them. Damian would happily accompany a person walking home in the dark without them asking to. Damian is very far from ending up like his grandfather.

And that’s not accounting for his love of animals.

The bunny in Tim’s hand hops on Damian’s bed, and Tim is graced with a rare, small smile from Damian. It blindsides him in that window of time it appears before flickering away.

“Alfred is coming soon,” Damian says. “Feel that it’s appropriate to warn you, since you are still avoiding him along with Father, correct?”

The bunny halts mid-hop. “What hasn’t Dick told you?” Tim asks, incredulous.

“Alfred messages me before he arrives,” Damian says. “Now unhand Ranya, please. She does not care for your aimless hopping.”

Tim slants the plushies a look. Ranya the bunny, and Fatih the pug. Arabic for _conqueror_ and _triumphant victor_.

The names are also very Damian in nature.

He still has a bit of time left, and people are still expecting him to stay at home to recover so they’re lenient on his break times. Tim bids Damian goodbye and makes his way to the cemetery right across from the hospital which, in Tim’s opinion, is quite an efficient placement.

On his way out, he bumps into Alfred in the hallway.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred greets, delighted. “You haven’t visited the manor in a while.”

Tim flushes, because only Alfred can infuse affection and reproach this flawlessly in one simple statement. He scratches his cheek and focuses on his shuffling feet.

“Yeah, uh, sorry about that.”

Alfred gives him one hard, long look, before sighing. He puts one hand on Tim’s shoulder and squeezes it in comprehension.

“The need and compulsion that drives Master Bruce to dispense justice,” Alfred says, “is nothing compared to his love for his family. In time, it will get better. Trust me on this, Master Timothy.”

And only Alfred can dispel his deepest worries with a few chosen words.

“Now, please,” Alfred insists, “stop avoiding my dinner invitations. And bring Master Jason while you’re at it. He hasn’t been over to visit in a while as well.”

Finally bringing his gaze up, Tim grins at Alfred. “I will,” Tim says. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Alfred returns his smile and fixes Tim’s collar—probably a piece of lint spotted by Alfred’s eagle eyes—before patting his shoulder on the way to Damian’s room.

 

* * *

 

Flowers clenched in his hand, he walks to the cemetery. He’s two steps out the gift store when his phone buzzes. 

He doesn’t stop walking while he checks his phone. Tim’s probably going to get run over one day, since he’s one of those people that’salways glued to their phone, but Tim figures he can risk it. Chances of survival would be pretty high considering he’s right beside the hospital.

 _Heard you bumped into Alfred,_ Jason texts. _How’d it go?_

Tim stops, and looks behind him, a bit wary. Then Tim thinks about it, because he’s always made sure to leave an hour before Alfred arrives, and squints at his phone.

 _You set me up,_ he accuses.

All he gets back is a line of kissy face emojis.

Jason would retell classic literature through the sole use of emojis if he could. Regardless,  Tim adores him so.

 _I’ll tell you later when I get home,_ Tim replies. _Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?_

His lack of reply is confirmation. Tim can even imagine a tinge of guilt with the silence, which draws a small chuckle from him.

Shaking his head, he slips his phone back in his pocket as he enters the cemetery. He counts the rows in his head until he reaches the number forty-two, and turns right. Then, he keeps walking until a square, upright gravestone stands in front of him.

_Terry McGinnis.  
2007 – 2017_

A bouquet of lilies has already been placed, which Tim recognises must have been from Lark. Majestic lilies, pure white in colour, they are often used to symbolize the innocence that has been restored to the soul of the departed.

Tim’s own bouquet is a handful of pink carnations tied with a white bow.

For remembrance.

A boy, once lost and forgotten, now named and honoured. A small pebble causing ripples that propagates beyond anyone’s expectations. Terry will never know how much of Tim’s life he has irrevocably changed, and Tim will always be grateful.

Kneeling, Tim arranges the flowers to lie proudly before the gravestone.

“I won’t forget you,” Tim promises. “Rest in peace, Terry.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started writing this six months ago, finished it three months ago, had it checked and double checked, took it down to rework and now I'm finally here!!! And then I realised how little Jaytim there is near the end...whoops. Oh well, this was more a Tim-centric fic and I'm horrible at writing kissing scenes.
> 
> I wanted to write a fic where Tim rationalises killing the Joker so just imagine that it's Leto's Joker and you're welcome.
> 
> Thank you for reading! This fic was heavily inspired by my favourite DC movie of all time, _Under The Red Hood_. Lark is a reference to Duke, which I've only read one arc of so far, but he seems adorable. Terry McGinnis is from Batman Beyond, and a couple more references to different things which I have forgotten currently, but if you recognise, please feel free leave a comment below!
> 
> Once again, thank you for phoenixrisingdusk, and xseaxwitchx for betaing, weird-things-first for the lovely picture, and Batfamily Reverse Big Bang for hosting the event.
> 
> Links:  
> [my tumblr.](http://fatcatsarecats.tumblr.com)  
> [weird-things-first's tumblr.](http://weird-things-first.tumblr.com)  
> [phoenixrisingdusk's tumblr.](http://phoenixrisingdusk.tumblr.com)  
> [xseaxwitchx's tumblr.](http://xseaxwitchx.tumblr.com)  
> [Batfamily Reverse Big Bang's tumblr.](http://batfamreversebigbang.tumblr.com)


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